^LIBRj^IIYOFCOxNGRESSj 

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^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA ? 



SNATCHES OF SONG. 



BY 



^y? £- 



MAET A. MCMULLEN 

/. 

(UNA.) 



V ; 



ST. LOUIS: A 
PUBLISHED BY PATRICK FOX, 
NO. 14 SOUTH FIFTH STREET, 

1874. 



p^'^'^ 
■h^^ 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, by 

MARY A. Mcmullen, 

In the oflOlce of the Librarian of Congress. 



SOUTHWKSTERN BOOK AND POB. CO., 

BTKRKOTVPKRtl AND PRINTKRS. 



TO MY FRIENDS 



AT 



SAIiNT MARTIN'S, OHIO, 

WHOSE CARE AND VALUED LESSONS ARE PLEASANTLY 
REMEMBERED, 

I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME. 



PEEFACE. 



My little book of verses may need an introduction, 
although perhaps adventurous enough to introduce 
itself. The friends who kindly welcomed my first poetic 
effort, will criticise with kindness the faults they find 
in this. It is scarcely necessary to state that the con- 
tents of this volume are really only " Snatches of Song," 
thrown off in the leisure moments of a somewhat busy 
life. Although my real name accompanies this work, I 

shall continue to use the old Celtic name of 

Una. 



CONTENTS. 



Pask. 

Our Angels 9 

Work is Worship . . . .10 
••Ecce Homo" .... 12 
The Green and Gold . . 14 

Unite 16 

The Sculptor 18 

Dream-Life 21 

Our Beautiful Isle of the Sea 23 

Saint Agnes 24 

Snow 27 

The Wayside Shrine ... 28 
A Hundred Years from Now 35 

Whither? 37 

Hymn to Liberty .... 39 

The Nativity 42 

The Land of Long Ago . . 44 

Come Again 46 

Mother 48 

No More 51 

The Painter 52 

Gone 54 

Christmas Cliimes .... 56 



Paqb. 

Pray for the Dead . . .57 

Flag of Erin 59 

Cashel 61 

Our Captive Brothers . . 63 
Floral Worship .... 65 
The Conqueror's Tomb . 66 
The Songs of Eire ... 69 
Burial of Isabella of Castile 70 
The Mountains .... 74 

Thomas Davis 75 

Autumn Leaves .... 77 
The Nightingale .... 79 
Washington's Farewell to his 

Army 81 

God Pity the Poor ... 83 

Life 85 

Festal Song 88 

Last Night of Joan of Arc . 90 
The Forests of the West 94 
Saint Mary's Bells, Limerick 97 
The Little Chair . . . . loi 
The Men of Rutli . . .103 



8 



CONTENTS. 



Dead in his Cell . , 
Winter Nights . . 
Via Crucis .... 
Ma Mere .... 
To Father Burke 
Lough Neagh . . 

Ruins 

Saint Patrick s Day . 

Eva 

Beneath the Clover . 
Saint Martin's . . 
What would my Mother 

Say? 

Gethsemane . . . 
Origin of the White Rose 
Memorare .... 
To Mrs. Sadlier . . 
Welcome to the West 
To an Ivy Leaf . . 
Drifting Down the River 
Sister Agatha . . . 
Song for To-Day . . 
The Captive . . . 
The New Year . . 
Ireland's Free . . 
Columbia's Birthday 
Magdalen .... 



Pass. 
1 06 
109 
III 

"5 
117 
119 
121 
123 
127 
129 



130 



135 
137 
138 
140 



Paob 

God and Our Land . . .154 
Where the Sunbeams Play 155 
The Bird from Paradise . 156 
Old Songs 162 



After the Storm . . . .163 
A Morning Walk . . .164 
The Fireside at Home . .166 
Nature and Art . . . .167 

Erin 170 

To a Sister of Mercy . .174 

On the Wave 1 75 

The Picket 176 

To Lizzie ...... 178 

Persevere 179 

132 The Old Home .... 182 

133 William Smith O'Brien . 183 
The Angel and the Flowers 186 
To a Youthful Friend . .189 
A Mother's Plaint . . . 191 
Another Year 194 



142 The Sleeping Warriors . . 195 

144 The Old 197 

145 A Sigh 198 

148 The Crowning with Thorns 199 

149 Rest 201 

151 The Friends of Days Gone 

153 By 207 



POEMS. 



OUR ANGELS. 

Their airy pinions ever float around us, 

To brush the shadows from our path of cloud; 

We know them as the friends our God has given 
To guard us from the cradle to the shroud. 

Some, radiant with a beauty more than mortal, 
Whose splendor would oppress our earthly sight, 

Unseen, are ever near to prompt and strengthen 
Our hearts to spurn the wrong and choose the right. 

And some in earthly garb, perhaps unlovely, 
The spirit's glory wrapt in common clay, 

Unknown to us, our rightful burdens carry. 

And bear the thorns that should bestrew our way. 

They soothe our woes, and sorrow o'er our follies, 
Sigh when we weep, and smile when we rejoice ; 

Oh, sad the heart that knows no earthly angels, 
Nor hears a blessed sound in human voice. 



10 WORK IS WORSHIP. 

We do not see the folded wings that ever 

Are ready in an upward flight to soar ; 
Alas ! we seldom prize our earthly angels 

Till God has called them to the golden shore. 

Pure souls, that strayed from out your native heaven, 
Our sordid earth to brighten for a time, 

One face I know beams 'mongst your ranks of beauty- 
One spirit, simple, earnest and sublime. 

Your robe of clay is changed for one of glory, 
O friend, unselfish, patient, thoughtful, true; 

Yet surely it is sweet to be remembered 
On earth awhile as we remember you. 



WORK IS WORSHIP. 

Toiling brothers, are you weary 

Struggling 'neath life's bitter weight ? 
Dream not idleness is honor. 
Envy not the proud and great; 
Noble is your humble lot ; 
Work is worship, scorn it not. 



WORK IS WORSHIP. ii 

Sigh not for the gilded glory 

That the crown or sceptre brings ; 
If ye rule the fields of labor 
Ye are God-created kings ; 

Oft a regal heart may rest 
'Neath a coarse and tattered vest. 



Though the worldly great may scorn you, 

Ye are men — what more are they ? 
Have they not the same Creator ? 
Are they made of finer clay ? 
'Tis by noble deeds alone 
That a noble soul is known. 



Let the voice of prayer and labor 

Blend in one harmonious chime ; 
Useful works are glorious anthems, 
Toil is prayer the most sublime. 

Though ye suffer scorn and pain, 
Think not that ye live in vain. 



Think of Him, the " Meek and Lowly," 

When in weariness ye groan : 
How He lived, and toiled, and suffered. 
Poor, unhonored and unknown ; 
He, the universal Lord, 
Worshiped by both deed and word. 



12 "ECCE HOMO." 

Honored be the earnest worker, ' 

Blessed the rough, toil-hardened hand, 
While the glorious hymn of labor 
Upward floats from wave and land. 
Toilers, noble is your lot ; 
Work is worship, scorn it not. 



"ECCE HOMO!" 



" Ecce Homo ! " Rome's proud ruler o'er Judea's fallen 
land 

Thus addressed the rabble, pointing with his sceptred 
hand 

Where the Savior, meek and lowly, calm and uncom- 
plaining, stood. 

While the mob, by fury blinded, loudly clamored for his 
blood. 

" Ecce Homo ! " At the pillar, scourged by Pilate's harsh 

command, 
Those he loved and blessed and toiled for, void of pity, 

round him stand; 
No repining sound escapes him, neither murmurs, groans 

nor sighs, 
But a world of bitter anguish looks from his forgiving 

eyes. 



•«ECCE HOMO." 13 

" Ecce Homo ! " O'er his features see the drops of crim- 
son rain 

Slowly drip, while thorns are piercing through his brow 
with fiery pain. 

Fearful torture! Yet the creatures for whose sake He 
suffered, died. 

All his boundless love forgetting, walk the earth in self- 
ish pride ! 

" Ecce Homo ! " Aye, behold Him ! see his look of 

silent woe. 
As the past and future ages out before his vision go ; 
As He sees what countless numbers cast aside the cross 

and crown — 
Sees his life-blood, shed to save them, trod by pride and 

passion down. 

" Ecce Homo !" We behold Him, bruised and bleeding, 
faint and lone. 

Chosen friends and loved disciples in the hour of trial 
gone; 

Through thy streets, O fated Zion, fiercer shouts of ven- 
geance ring ; 

Lord of all, by all forsaken; earth disowns and slays 
her King. 

" Ecce Homo ! " Lord of glory, we behold Thee scorned, 

reviled ; 
May thy sadly mournful story make us humble, patient, 

mild; 



14- THE GREEN AND GOLD. 

Bind our hearts to Thee forever, that when life is here 
laid down, 

We may hear thy voice of mercy and behold thy thorn- 
less crown. 



THE GREEN AND GOLD. 

Who quails at the frown of power, who talks of a hope- 
less land ? 

There's hope for the daring ever, and strength for the 
willing hand ; 

There's light in our grand old banner, and glory in every 
fold; 

Then down with the might of tyrants and up with the 
green and gold ! 

The scorn of the stronger nations — you've long in the 

dust been trod ; 
You've bent to the lash with patience, and looked 

through your tears to God ; 
You whine to the Lord of Armies, who smiles on the 

brave and bold, 
But strike, and his strength will aid you to raise up the 

green and gold ! 



THE GREEN AND GOLD. 1$ 

Work, work, for the days are fleeting, e'en now may 

your chance be nigh ; 
And oh, if your hands are folded, how swiftly the time 

will fly! 
The wreath of the victor never was seized by the dull or cold, 
'Tis ceaseless and strong endeavor must raise up the 

green and gold. 

Up, up, for our grand old Island! On, on with the 
world advance ! 

Dash into the sea her fetters : she'll leap from her death- 
like trance. 

Bring light to the homes long dreary, and hope to the 
hearts now cold; 

Then down with the might of tyrants, and up with the 
green and gold ! 

You sleep while the lands are waking, and stand while 

they're marching on ; 
You dream while they forge their armor, and stoop while 

their rights are won ; 
Success is the meed of labor, and grasped by the true 

and bold ; 
Then toil for the fall of tyrants, the rise of the green and 

gold. 

O men ! if your hearts are earnest and true as your hands 

are strong. 
Ring out to the world around you the knell of the reign 

of wrong. 



i6 UNITE. 

Brave bells are the flame-tongued cannons, on them let 

that knell be tolled, 
Down, down with the might of tyrants, and up with the 

green and gold ! 



UNITE. 



We're tossed by waves on every shore. 

Like pebbles on the strand ; 
Then, shall we meet as strangers meet, 

O children of our land ! 
And coldly greet, and coldly bare 

Each other's faults to view, 
Instead of clasping trusting hands. 

Like Erin's children true ? 

Let ancient feuds and petty strifes 

Like midnight's gloom depart; 
Can hate or discord dwell within 

A true and earnest heart ? 
The really lofty, noble soul 

Ne'er thinks of self alone; 
The patriot must ever make 

His country's wrongs his own. 

Oh, shall the Isle we love so well, 
Our beauteous Ocean Queen, 

Year after year a suppliant 
Be 'mong the nations seen, 



UNITE. J7 

While we must own, though many wrongs 

To tyrant rule we trace, 
That discord is the direst curse 

That rests upon our race ? 

No ; brothers, friends, no more apart 

Like foes or strangers stand ; 
Unite, a noble brotherhood, 

To raise our trampled land; 
No longer let the shameful taunt 

Upon our race be thrown : 
" You fight the stranger's battles well, 

But can not fight your own. 

Cement the bonds of union now. 

And time new strength will bring. 
As by degrees the acorn grows 

To be the forest king. 
Prepare the way by patient toil. 

And if, when great and strong, 
You seek a fitting time to strike. 

You shall not wait it long. 

Then join as one to break the chains 

Around our nation cast; 
By force they bind, united force 

Must snap their links at last. 
Erect and free shall Erin be 

When her oppressors feel 
That for their cruel, iron laws 

You'll pay with flashing steel. 



i8 THE SCULPTOR. 



THE SCULPTOR. 

Reserved he moved amid the throng, a king who trod 

alone 
A world of fancies vague and fair, an empire of his own ; 
A spirit gifted, great was his, and power to him was given 
To prison in the rugged rock a splendor caught from 

heaven. 
He bade the soul of beauty breathe from shapeless blocks 

of stone. 
And sculptured saints and seraphim in fadeless glory 

shone. 
Grand forms of matchless loveliness, majestic, faultless, 

high. 
Beneath his touch stepped forth to light and immortality; 
But never did his chisel trace a base, ignoble line, 
He felt within his soul the truth, that genius is divine, 
And that its works should honor Him by whom it was 

bestowed ; 
So 'neath the vast cathedral domes his bright creations 

glowed, 
Or glorified the cloisters dim — ReHgion's calm abode. 

Time passed along in earnest toil, the world was loud in 

praise, 
And Fame her choicest smiles bestowed to bless the 

sculptor's days ; 
At last he thirsted for applause, as flowers thirst for dew, 
And earth usurped the place of heaven — the seeming of 

the true. 



THE SCULPTOR. 19 

No longer did his marble gleam with splendor from on 

high, 
Its soulless, earthly beauty rose to dazzle — then to die. 
Oh, why should mortal heart be proud ! Age rent the 

priceless dower 
Of genius from the gray-haired man, his hand forgot its 

power; 
He pined within his lonely rooms, unheeded and unsought, 
New artists rose to take his place, and worldlings knew 

him not. 
Alas ! for those whose happiness is all with mortals bound, 
One moment raised to regal state, the next dethroned, 

discrowned ! 

But Death, who ne'er forgets to call, came softly to his 

door — 
" O strength ! O time ! " the old man cried, " can ye be 

mine no more ? " 
How worthless were an honored name, a famous past to 

him ! 
Gray, ghostly forms seemed flitting round, his fading 

sight grew dim. 
A stern, pale spirit, piercing-eyed, bent by his drooping 

head. 
And in a low and thrilling tone of deepest sadness said: 
" O thou, so highly gifted once, thy work is not yet done! 
Where is the statue noble, grand, in early youth l)egun — 
The one which God commanded thee to carve of purest 

white. 



20 THE SCULPTOR. 

That it might stand forevermore in halls of living light ? 
Rude, stained, unfinished, there it lies; oh, weep neglected 

days ! 
The chisel fails thy trembling hands ; what now is pride 

or praise ? 

The artist groaned, a struggling prayer, tear-laden, flut- 
tering rose. 

And pitying beings gathered round to soothe Hfe's mourn- 
ful close ; 

Hope raised the marble from the dust, with gentle hand 
and strong, 

And Paith illumed the lineaments that had been dark so 
long; 

Then Charity, sweet Charity, with loving, cleansing tears, 

Washed from the damp, disfigured stone the stains of 
■ many years. 

(For he who lay so helpless there, had wept for others' 
woe. 

And never did the poor and sad from him unsuccored go.) 

And lo ! a figure lovelier than poet's fairest thought. 

Its blemishes by Mercy's hand to polished pureness 
wrought — 

A ransomed soul was borne to realms by mortals never 
trod, 

The artist's spirit-sculpture fair was in the courts of God. 



DREAM-LIFE. 21 



DREAM-LIFE. 

Human hearts are ever striving, 
Ever planning and contriving, 
Grasping at the glowing visions 

O'er which fancy's pinions wave; 
Whether joys or woes surround us, 
Still our thoughts will stray beyond us. 
For we are a race of dreamers 

From the cradle to the grave. 

When with buoyant step glad childhood 
Gayly roams through vale and wildwood, 
Scenes still brighter seem to wait him 

Where his coming youth appears; 
For the rosy glow of distance 
Holds a fanciful existence, 
And a robe of gorgeous beauty 

Flutters round the future years. 

Youth arrives, and still he glances 
Onward, onward, for he fancies 
That his hand will soon be potent 

As the magic lamp of old; 
And he builds an airy palace 
In which pleasure's glowing chalice 
May be freely quaffed when manhood 

Has the scroll of time unrolled. 



22 DREAM-LIFE. 

But at last his lordly castle 
Vanishes with serf and vassal ; 
To the eye grown older, sterner, 

Life presents a darker page : 
All his rosy hopes are faded, 
All his days with clouds are shaded, 
And he trustfully looks forward 

To the calm repose of age. 

Now the snows of years, descending 
On his brow, foretell the ending 
Of his earthly joys and trials, 

Yet in vain he seeks for rest. 
To the time no more returning 
Back he looks with wistful yearning. 
Then Hope guides his vision upward 

To the mansions of the blest. 

Thus in dreams we wander ever, 
Living in the present never. 
But with longing eye still turning 

To the future or the past; 
Till our heart-strings chill and shiver, 
As the waves of death's cold river 
Put an end to all our dreaming, 

And the changeless comes at last. 

May we strive to grasp the real, 
While we picture the ideal. 



OUR BEAUTIFUL ISLE OF THE SEA. 23 

And the while the brain is dreaming 
Toil with strong determined hand ; 

Vain are visions bright with beauty, 

If we shrink from earnest duty, 

For the thoughts that rouse not action 
Are but letters traced on sand. 



OUR BEAUTIFUL ISLE OF THE SEA. 

Far, far from thy valleys, dear Erin, 

We sit by the firelight to-night, 
And call up the days dead and buried 

That spite of their sorrows seem bright. 
Aye, bright through their tears and their tempests, 

For memory links them to thee. 
Thou shrine of our fondest devotion. 

Our beautiful isle of the sea. 

We talk of thy long faded glory. 

And dream of thy ancient reaown ; 
We sigh that thy gold-blazoned banner 

In darkness and ruin went down ; 
But near, in the hope-lighted future, 

We're watching to see it float free 
Above thy proud, chain-scorning mountains. 

Our beautiful isle of the sea. 



24 ST. AGNES. 

Thy foes may be bitter and many, 

And friends may prove faithless or cold. 
But thine is a soul never conquered, 

A spirit that can not grow old; 
We know thou wilt rise in thy power. 

And cause thy oppressors to flee ; 
Oh, hasten the day and the hour^ 

Our beautiful isle of the sea ! 

Far, far from thy valleys, dear Erin, 

We sit in the land of the West, 
And picture thy shores as we left them 

With those who have gone to their rest ; 
Their eyes can not look on thy freedom, 

Grant, God of our fathers, that we 
May live to salute as a nation 

Our beautiful isle of the sea. 



ST. AGNES. 



The morning's rosy fingers unbar the gates of day. 
And bid the flying hours speed swiftly on their way. 
The breath of coming blossoms floats on the wind's light 

wing; 
It is the opening glory of fair Italia's spring. 
While Rome sits robed in beauty, and sunshine gilds her 

domes. 
Grim persecution rages around her hearths and homes. 



ST. AGNES 25 

Within the crowded forum a sHght and girlish form 
With fearless heart serenely awaits the coming storm ; 
The gazing crowd she sees not, nor heeds the judge's 

frown ; 
Her raptured eye can only behold the martyr's crown; 
And see the glorious victims whose steps have gone 

before, 
And traced in blood a pathway to the eternal shore. 

The guileless grace of childhood yet lingers on her brow ; 
Unbound her glossy tresses in sunny wavelets flow, 
The fragile figure shrouding as with a golden veil, 
And with a halo framing the face so calm and pale ; 
The crowd look on in silence and seem to hold their 

breath 
To see the youthful martyr stand face to face with death. 

The judge's stern voice trembles, and pity dims his eye : 
" It grieves us. Lady Agnes, to sentence thee to die ; 
Deny this Christ who leaves thee to such a dreadful 

doom, 
And bow in adoration before the gods of Rome ; 
One single act of worship and we will loose thy bands. 
And give thee life and freedom with all thy wealth and 

lands." 

She answers firmly, mildly : " One God I worship now, 
To blind and senseless idols my soul can never bow. 
To Thee, O blessed Jesus, who canst redeem and save, 



26 ST. AG NES. 

Who oped the gates of glory and triumphed o'er the 

grave, 
To Thee my Hfe I offer, in steadfast faith I come ; 
Accept my humble tribute, and call thy servant home." 

With clear eyes raised to Heaven she kneels in silent 

prayer. 
And hears triumphal music resounding through the air ; 
She sees the glorious city whose portals open stand, 
Revealing to her vision the noble martyr band 
That she so soon shall follow, while angels trooping 

down 
The sky, are twining lilies around her palm and crown. 

Upon the blood-stained marble she meekly bows her head; 
To her the spot is holy, there countless saints have bled; 
She thinks how Jesus suffered, mocked, scourged, and 

crucified, 
How, loving and forgiving. He blessed his foes and died 
To die for Him is heaven, no terror can she feel; 
A moment more, above her bright gleams the flashing steel 

One quick, convulsive quiver, the golden head lies low. 
And o'er the snowy raiment the crimson life-drops flow; 
A lamb upon the altar, untouched by sinful stain. 
Such seems the gentle victim — her death is not in vain. 
The warm, bright currents gushing from out her pure 

heart's tide 
Baptize a thousand Christians where she for Christ has 

died. 



SNOW. 27 



SNOW. 



Silently, slowly the flakes flutter down, 
Veiling the earth's sombre mantle of brown ; 
Lightly they're drifting in eddying whirls, 
Crowning each bough with a chaplet of pearls. 

Soft as the down of an angel's white wing, 
Bright as the bloom of the hawthorn in spring. 
Pure gleaming crystals alight on the sod — 
Pearl blossoms blown from the gardens of God. 

Far are the folds of its white mantle spread, 
Muffling the sounds of the tempest king's tread; 
Homestead and hamlet in pure beauty glow. 
Wrapt in the light, fleecy robe of the snow. 

Bright on the brow of the sable-veiled pine, 
Clusters of jewels the brilliant wreaths shine ; 
Hill- top and valley in calm slumber lie, 
Folded in drapery woven on high. 

Down through the city, its smoke and its din, 
Lovely as charity covering sin. 
Float the white cloudlets to brighten, then rise. 
Mounting the sunbeams to soar to the skies. 

Heaven-born snow, thus the pure soul, like thee. 
Flits through the world, but from earth stains is free. 
Blesses and brightens where'er it may go. 
Beautifies earth like the crystals of snow. 



28 THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 



THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 

A LEGEND. 

Long years ago, as olden legends say, 
Within a castle stately, quaint and gray, 
There dwelt a youth, last of an honored line, 
His sire slept 'neath the turf of Palestine. 
Well trained in virtue by maternal care, 
Each day at Mary's shrine he knelt in prayer ; 
He loved to hear his mother's accents mild 
Tell of the Virgin and the holy Child — 
Of how the angels sang on Christmas night 
To greet the new-born Savior — of the flight 
Across Judea's mountains to the land 
Where rolls the Nile o'er Afric's yellow sand. 
His fancy saw the snowy lotus quiver 
Upon the bosom of that old-time river. 
And Egypt's graceful palms in reverence bow 
At their Creator's coming. Oft his brow 
Grew sad when thinking how the hallowed sod 
Of Calv'ry drank the life-blood of a God, 
And of the anguished Mother, looking on 
The dreadful torture of her worshiped Son. 
Thus taught, to Philip's guileless heart each year 
The blessed name of Mary grew more dear. 
And days without some kindly action fraught 



THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 29 

For Christ's dear sake, to him seemed less than naught. 
At last his mother's cheek grew thin and pale ; 
As sinks a willow bent beneath the gale 
She drooped ; for in a knightly tomb was laid 
Her heart in far Judea's olive shade. 
With her crusader vanished all life's joy ; 
Earth had no link to bind her save her boy. 
Our Lady's altar in her silent room 
Each day was decked with flowers, whose rich perfume 
The silent worshipers, with thoughts of love, 
Raised to the glorious Queen of Flowers above. 
Young roses oped their dewy lips and there 
Exhaled their sighs, like childhood's first pure prayer ; 
The shy, sweet violets seemed blue infant eyes 
Raised to a mother's face in pleased surprise ; 
The regal lilies, emblems spotless, bright 
Of Israel's Lily, lifted up their white, 
Clear ivory chalices, in which below 
The rim, in golden letters, seemed to glow 
" Ave Maria," for the lily heard 
In Nazareth of old the angel's word. 

The days went by — hot streams of molten gold 
Poured from the furnace of the sun, and rolled, 
Aglow with splendid but oppressive hght. 
To cool within the reservoirs of night. 
At last the blazing noon of August came. 
The morn of the Assumption robed in flame 
The gorgeous East, and Philip knelt beside 



so THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 

His mother, for her blessing ere she died. 
With paUid lips she pressed the orphan's brow : 
" Sweet Queen of Mercy, be his mother now," 
She said ; " and oh, my boy, in coming years, 
In all temptations, trials, doubts and fears. 
To Mary, pitying mother, ever pray. 
Whom Heaven crowns within its courts to-day." 
Her breathing grew more faint, her voice more weak; 
She murmured, " Jesus, Mary " — ceased to speak ; 
As wayworn pilgrim rests, his journey o'er. 
She closed her eyes and slept to wake no more. 

Great was the orphan's grief, but boyhood's years 

Shake from their wings the dew of sorrow's tears 

As leaves shake dewdrops. Then the heir of gold, 

Caressed and courted by the world, grew cold 

To God and duty. Surely day by day 

Sin worked within his soul its stealthy way. 

The wild carouse consumed his midnight hours. 

Until he fled from his ancestral towers. 

Proscribed and banned ; the mountains then he trod, 

And scorned alike the laws of man and God. 

Yet 'mid the grand and gloomy solitudes 

No day went by, e'en in his fiercest moods, 

But heard him offer up to Mary mild 

The prayer his mother taught him when a child. 

His mad career was o'er, a deed of dread 
Had been committed ; o'er his reckless head 



THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 31 

The murderer's doom impended. He was found, 

Condemned to die, and lodged, in irons bound, 

Within a cell whose entrance was to be 

For him the threshold to eternity. 

'Twas vain to plead " not guilty ; " he had stood 

Beside the corse, his garments stained with blood. 



Misfortunes are but stairs of light that lead 

The spirit up to God ; and in his need 

Did Philip think of Him whose boundless love 

Is more enduring than the heavens above, 

And beg of Mary, merciful and kind, 

His spirit's heavy fetters to unbind. 

Thus did he pray as through his prison bars 

He watched one morn the fading of the stars : 



" Oh, Queen of Mercy ! who didst stand 

Beside the sacred rood. 
When earth in giddy horror reeled. 

Drunk with her Maker's blood; 
When darkness veiled the noontide sun, 

And through the inky pall 
Above the shrunken stars seemed tears 

That wished, but feared, to fall. 
Oh, pitiful ! compassionate ! 

Behold my anguish wild ! 
My mother loved thee; for her sake 

Protect her erring child. 



$2 THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 

" Oh, tender soul ! that bore a woe 

Whose weight might crush the world, 
Behold me in the blackest depths 

Of direst ruin hurled ; 
My sinful lips dare not pronounce 

The awful name of Him 
Whose death-sigh shook the universe. 

So through the shadows dim 
Of wrong and sorrow, hopefully 

I raise my eyes to thee, 
Whose aid was never sought in vain ; 

Oh, pray to Him for me ! 

" Pray! and, although upon his blood, 

His love, his law I trod. 
He will forgive if thou but plead — 

He is thy Son, though God. 
Save for my honored father's sake 

My name from felon brand ; 
Though many are my sins, thou knowst 

No blood is on my hand. 
Oh, riven heart ! that 'neath the cross 

Couldst pray for sinners, thou. 
Though all the world may jeer and scoff, 

Wilt not forsake me now ! " 

Aurora's fingers touched the amber gates 
Of morn, and back they swung; the prison grates 
Grew luminous ; the convict's dreary room 
Was frescoed o'er with bars of gold and gloom. 



THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 33 

His last dread hour had come ; soon, soon alone 

His shrinking soul must face Jehovah's throne. 

His guards approach, dull sounds their heavy tread, 

Like frozen clay on some dear coffined head 

That falls with sullen clang; and now he stands 

In day's broad glare with strongly pinioned hands. 

As slow they lead him through the gaping crowd, 

His throbbing brow in shame and suffering bowed. 

He thinks of Jesus, staggering, falling, faint 

Beneath the cross, yet breathing no complaint, 

And prays for strength to bear his own. They near 

A spot to the Madonna's children dear — 

A. wayside altar. Prisoned there in stone 

The Mater Dolorosa stood alone, 

A glorious figure, bent, not crushed by woe. 

The pierced soul quivering on the lips, the brow 

O'ershadowed by a sorrow so sublime 

It led the gazer's thoughts o'er space and time 

To vast eternity As if heart- wrung, 

Upon the drooping eyelids trembling hung 

Great, heavy tear-drops, waiting but the call 

Of some sad, human heart to bid them fall 

And heal its sorrows. Oft had Philip there 

In happy childhood bent the knee in prayer, 

Nor would he pass it then. His guards allowed 

Him to approach; the chiselled face seemed bowed 

In pily o'er him ; and the floral wreath 

Around the sculptured head (though not a breath 

Was stirring) loosened out its lilied bands 



34 THE WAYSIDE SHRINE. 

And fell all stainless on his shackled hands. 
The throng amazed, burst forth with startled cry : 
" He's innocent ! He's saved ! He must not die ! " 
And, 'mid the tumult and confusion there, 
A deep voice rose, half terror, half despair, 
Repeating, " He is innocent; 'tis I 
Who am the murderer! He must not die!" 
The conscience-stricken wretch, thus forced to tell 
His guilt, was led to Philip's empty cell. 
While he at Mary's shrine with grateful tears 
Vowed that to God and her his future years 
Should be devoted. And his vow was kept. 
Beside the sufferer's couch while others slept 
He watched and prayed, and seldom failed to win 
The wand'ring soul from wretchedness and sin 
Through Mary's love to God. No day went by 
But saw some good by angels borne on high 
To weigh against the evils of the past. 
His step grew slow, his hair grew white ; at last 
One summer morn some early peasants found 
The old man prostrate on the hallowed ground 
Beside the wayside shrine, as if in prayer. 
The night dew glistening on his silv'ry hair, 
But on his lip no breath. Down from her shrine 
The sweet Madonna viewed, with look divine, 
The aged pilgrim's face bent on his breast. 
He seemed a weary child just dropped to rest 
At that dear Mother's feet, who from her Son 
Life here and life above for him had won. 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 35 



A HUNDRED YEARS FROM NOW. 

The surging sea of human life forever onward rolls, 
And bears to the eternal shore its daily freight of souls, 
Though bravely sails our bark to-day, pale Death sits a\ 

the prow. 
And few shall know we ever lived a hundred years from 

now. 

O mighty human brotherhood ! why fiercely war and 

strive, 
While God's great world has ample space for everything 

alive ? 
Broad fields, uncultured and unclaimed, are waiting for 

the plow 
Of progress that shall make them bloom a hundred years 

from now. 

Why should we try so earnestly in life's short, narrow 

span, 
On golden stairs to climb so high above our brother 

man? 
Why blindly at an earthly shrine in slavish homage bow ? 
Our gold will rust, ourselves be dust, a hundred years 

from now ! 



36 A HUNDBED YEARS FROM NOW. 

Why prize so much the world's applause ? Why dread so 

much its blame ? 
A fleeting echo is its voice of censure or of fame ; 
The praise that thrills the heart, the scorn that dyes with 

shame the brow, 
Will be as long-forgotten dreams a hundred years from 

now. 

O patient hearts, that meekly bear your weary load of 

wrong! 
O earnest hearts, that bravely dare, and, striving, grow 

more strong ! 
Press on till perfect peace is won ; you'll never dream 

of how 
You struggled o'er life's thorny road a hundred years 

from now. 

Grand, lofty souls, who live and toil that freedom, right 

and truth 
Alone may rule the universe, for you is endless youth ; 
When 'mid the blest, with God you rest, the grateful 

lands shall bow 
Above your clay in rev'rent love a hundred years from 

now. 

Earth's empires rise and fall, O Time ! like breakers on 

thy shore ; 
They rush upon thy rocks of doom, go down, and are 

no more ; 



WHITHER? 37 

The starry wilderness of worlds that gem night's radiant 

brow 
Will light the skies for other eyes a hundred years from 

now. 

Our Father, to whose sleepless eyes the past and future 

stand 
An open page, like babes we cling to thy protecting 

hand ; 
Change, sorrow, death are naught to us if we may safely 

bow 
Beneath the shadow of thy throne a hundred years 

from now. 



WHITHER? 

[An Irish paper of a recent date says that this Spring 
" there is a continuous stream of young people leaving 
Drogheda to embark for the far West." Years ago it 
was like rending the heart-strings to say farewell to 
Ireland. Has the love of land grown weaker, or is the 
country changed ? We may bury under the cypress our 
hopes of an Irish nation, when the Celt walks quietly 
out of his home to give possession to the Saxon.] 

Whither, oh, whither, so swiftly rushing, 
Far from your ancient and storied land ? 



38 WHITHER? 

Where can you seek for more fruitful valleys, 
Breezes more bracing, or scenes more grand ? 

Where ? You are leaving your hearts behind you, 
Here will they linger though far you roam. 

Why do you turn from the land that loves you ? 
Why are you hasting away from home ? 

Wherefore, oh, wherefore, my sons, my daughters, 

Flee you away to a stranger shore? 
Thousands before you went o'er the waters, 

Went — but alas ! they returned no more. 
Now is their clay but the soil of strangers. 

Lost are their children to me for aye ; 
What do they care for the hills their fathers 

Watched through their tears as they sailed away ? 

" Ah ! " do you sigh, " we can stay no longer ? 

Strangers are lords of our rightful soil; 
Theirs is the wealth of the teeming valleys. 

Ours the struggle, the woe, the toil; 
Right has departed, and we must follow." 

Why, oh, my sons! You have strong, true hands- 
Better to fall for your homes than perish 

Toiling unknown and in distant lands. 

Whither, for still you are going, going ? 

Oh ! will you leave me alone — alone — 
Here with the tyrant to mock the anguish 

Wrung from my heart for my children gone ? 



HYMN TO LIBERTY. 39 

Lo! you may see on the world's broad pages 
Written my doom as you leave the shore : 

Ireland, one of the oldest, the proudest. 
Grandest of nations, exists no more. 

Whither, oh, whither ? the plains, the mountains, 

The rivers are calling ; all are yours — 
Yours, if you strive for them. Win and hold them 

Long as the ocean or earth endures. 
Stay where your hearts are, my sons, my daughters. 

List to your nation's, your mother's cry ; 
Stay, ere I weep out my soul in sorrow. 

Cover my brow in the dust and die ! 



HYMN TO LIBERTY. 

Oh! thou great and mighty angel, 

Whom the nations seldom see, 
View the lands in fetters pining, 

Lifting up their hands to thee ; 
Neath the burden of oppression 

See them struggle, hear them groan, 
While their tyrants shout exulting : 

" Liberty from earth has flown! " 

Sweep the world with wings of power, 
In thy passage hurling down 



40 HYMN TO LIBERTY. 

From above the trampled millions, 
King and purple, throne and crown ; 

Dash to earth the world's destroyers, 
Glorious angel, strong and just; 

Worms may crawl, but bid the people 
Look aloft and spurn the dust. 

Let the rushing of thy pinions 

Rouse the dreaming lands to life ; 
Break their hopeless, death-like stupor, 

Even with the sounds of strife; 
If their manacles can only 

By the sword be cut in twain — 
Better hear the clash of sabres 

Than the clanking of a chain. 

Why must bloated pomp and power 

Fatten when they scorn to toil ? 
He who digs from earth her treasures 

Should be monarch of the soil. 
Kings are not of God, though blinded 

Israel's wish of foohsh pride — 
Patriarch for regal ruler 

To exchange — was not denied. 

At her prayer, the great Jehovah, 
Let her bow to kingly sway; 

Now the world, grown wiser, fancies 
Royal heads have had their dav. 



PIYMN TO LIBERTY. 41 

God of right ! behold thy children 

Bosved in bondage, loathed, abhorred, 

'Neath those monsters of injustice. 
Called, " Anointed of the Lord." 

Look across the earth's broad bosom, 

Angel of the free and brave; 
O'er what countries, stainless, honored, 

Does thy flag of beauty wave ? 
Of what lands art thou the guardian, 

Lofty spirit ? Only two — 
Grand Columbia, fair and fearless, 

And the Switzer's mountains blue. 

But the others — list their pleading; 

Stifled voice and pinioned hand 
Seem to cry: " Oh, worshiped being, 

Come and save our wretched land I 
Through long years of woe and horror 

Have we striven to be free; 
On the scaflbld, in the dungeon, 

Have we proved our love for thee.'' 

Sternly, bravely, yet how weakly, 

Do they war with force and wrong; 
Smile upon their stormy present, 

Let them with thy strength be strong; 
From the dust their faces lifting, 

Lo! they deem thy coming nigh; 
Hasten, hasten, mighty angel. 

Lest the nations shriek and die. 



42 THE NATIVITY 



THE NATIVITY. 

Majestic Night on Judah's hills walks forth, her mantle's 

dusky hem 
All sprinkled with the stars that fell from out her flashing 

diadem ; 
She brings the time so long foretold by Israel's prophet 

saints of old. 

The Eastern shepherds, while they guard their flocks on 
tufted Syrian plains, 

Are startled by a dazzling blaze of light, a rush of sol- 
emn strains. 

And hear the angel's ringing voice that bids a ransomed 
world re'oice. 

From Heaven's gates, wide open flung, glad troops of 

happy spirits throng, 
" To God be glory, peace to men," the burden of their 

joyous song; 
While by the star the Magi led, arrive at Bethlehem's 

lowly shed. 

Andlo! the King of Glory there within a manger shiv- 
ering lies, . 



THE NATIVITY. 43 

A little, helpless babe, with tears already in his infant 

eyes; 
Could earth no brighter home afford, no fitter shelter for 

her Lord ? 

The great Messiah, looked for long, disowned, forsaken 
by his own. 

Begins to feel the world's cold scorn, and for its count- 
less crimes atone; 

His thoughtful eyes already see the thorny crown, the 
crimson tree. 

Low bends above that childish form the fairest, purest 

human face 
That ever sunbeam smiled upon, or God endowed with 

matchless grace — 
Young maiden mother, blest thou art, though sorrow's 

sword must pierce thy heart. 

Thrice blest to watch with holy awe thy Son's, thy 

Savior's cradle bed. 
To see Jehovah's glory shine upon that lovely, pensive 

head. 
On earth his first weak steps to guide, and reign forever 

by his side. 

Be thou for us a guiding star, and lead our hearts to 

Jesus' feet. 
Sweet mother, that the angel choirs for us their anthems 

may repeat ; 



44 THE LAND OF LONG AGO. 

Re-echo earth their song of peace, let sin and strife and 
sorrow cease. 

O holy Babe of Bethlehem, whose sway is owned on 

every shore, 
Guide thou our wayward, wandering feet, and rule our 

hearts forevermore. 
That when from clayey fetters free our souls redeemed 

may soar to thee. 



THE LAND OF LONG AGO. 

We've trodden rugged ways, old friend. 

Since childhood's buoyant years. 
Our paths now brightly arched with hope, 

Now dark with clouds and tears ; 
But looking back o'er time and change, 

The fairest land we know 
Lies bathed in morning's rosy light — 

The Land of Long Ago. 

When there how distant far appeared 

To us the glow of noon ; 
What eager, earnest glances turned 

To days that came too soon — 



THE LAND OF LONG AGO. 45 

Aye, came too soon, with earnestness, 

With struggles, triumphs, woe; 
With grave, calm words and thoughtful smiles, 

The ghosts of Long Ago. 

What dreams we dreamed in olden times, 

What castles proud and fair 
Arose to bless our hopeful sight— 

They rose too high in air. 
Their great halls rang with merry throngs 

That now lie still and low ; 
They drooped and faded since we left 

The Land of Long Ago. 

Old friend, dear friends of vanished years ! 

Their memory haunts us yet, 
Like fragments of some sweet old song 

The heart can ne'er forget. 
Their kindly words were music's tone, 

Their eyes had friendship's glow ; 
But ah ! their smiles beam faintly now 

From far-off Long Ago. 

We've climbed life's hard, rough hill, old friend, 

We're passing down its slope; v 

Behind us lies a weary road, 

Before, the Land of Hope. 
That weary road is lined with graves, 

The vale is glad below. 
There children play as once we played 

In happy Long Ago. 



46 COME AGAIN. 

For aye may childhood's sunny sky 

Be free from gloom and tears, 
That stores of joy may treasured be 

For dreary after years; 
For, viewing now the day of life 

Through night's descending snow, 
The fairest, dearest pictures gleam 

From bright old Long Ago. 



COME AGAIN. 



Sad words are breathed in this world of ours 
That cloud its sunshine and blight its flowers — 
Words of deep anguish and wild farewell 
That strike the heart like a fun'ral knell ; 
But oh, most mournful of all the words 
That wring a wail from the heart-harp's chords 
Is that low murmur breathed forth in vain 
For some lost treasure : Oh, come again ! 

The youth alone on the road of life 
Amid its danger and toil and strife, 
Though fame and fortune may wait his call, 
Still feels a shade o'er his spirit fall. 
To vanished scenes oft his thoughts will roam — 
The dear old nooks round his childhood's home, 
The friends he loved haunt his heart and brain ; 
He cries out sadly: Oh, come again! 



COME AGAIN. 47 

The flattered beauty whose lightest word 
By fawning minions with smiles is heard, 
Knows well those smiles veil cold hearts below — 
Aye, cold as sunbeams on fields of snow; 
And sighing turns to her early youth, 
When all the world wore the light of truth ; 
While fall her tears like the autumn rain, 
She cries : My childhood, oh, come again ! 

Stern manhood, too, when life's noon is past, 
A hng'ring look oft will backward cast 
To his glad boyhood, its hopes and fears, 
To his more toilsome and clouded years. 
To those he loved ere his heart grew cold. 
And left true friends for the sake of gold ; 
Wealth brings not joy, and he cries in vain: 
Friends of my youth, come, oh, come again ! 

The wretch whose spirit is bowed by crime — 
Whose locks are whitened before their time — 
E'en he can think of a long ago, 
When his young soul was as pure as snow ; 
And Memory pictures the old roof-tree 
Where oft he bent at his mother's knee ; 
He cries: Alas ! were her prayers in vain ? 
Light heart of childhood, oh, come again! 

Far, far more lovely in youthful hours 
Are grassy meadows and wildwood flowers, 
Than all the glory that meets our gaze 
And strives to dazzle in after days. 



48 MOTHER. 

The stainless vision to childhood given 
Tints all it sees with the hues of heaven, 
And, when they vanish, in bitter pain 
The grieving soul murmurs : Come again ! 

The human heart is a restless thing, 
Forever roaming on Fancy's wing, 
Or turning back to the days gone by 
That seem so fair to the longing eye. 
And though the present be glad and bright, 
The past is veiled in a misty light 
That makes it brighter, and thus in vain 
We cry forever : Oh, come again ! 



MOTHER. 

My mother! 'tis a holy name, endowed with magic 

power 
To soothe the sadly troubled soul in dark afflction's 

hour; 
It sweeps the spirit's chords like songs of angels heard in 

dreams; 
It opes the fountains of the heart as Spring unlocks the 

streams. 



MOTHER. . 49 

No voice like hers whose lullaby was o'er our cradle 
sung 

Can calm the heart by sorrow's stern, cold grasp too rudely 
wrung ; 

No hand like hers, whose gentle touch in childhood ban- 
ished pain, 

Can fold the downy wings of sleep above the throbbing 
brain. 

The world- worn spirit, wildly tossed by fortune's treach- 
erous gale. 

Beholds the faithless friends on whom its hopes were 
anchored fail; 

And seeking rest, as to the ark returned the weary dove, 

From smiling masks and hollow hearts turns to a 
mother's love. 

And pausing o'er the cruelty of fickle friends to grieve, 
Cries, " Mother, mother, yours the heart that never could 

deceive ! " 
Oh, but to lay my head as oft in childhood on your 

breast, 
And sobbing out my griefs, once more sink in your arms 

to rest. 

The oudaw, bold and hard of heart, with dark and 

stormy soul. 
O'er which the fiercly surging waves of passion madly 

roll, 

4 



50 MOTHER. 

Though he the great All-Father's love and mercy fail to 

see, 
Can ne'er forget the childish prayer lisped at his mother's 

knee. 

While struggling on with weary feet to reach the cloud- 
less land, 

Though wrong, deceit and chill distrust around us ever 
stand. 

The memory of a mother's love lifts up the anguish- 
bowed, 

And shines out through the darkest gloom, like sunshine 
from a cloud. 

Her prayers, though long the mute, cold lips have lain 

beneath the sod, 
Will ever seem like golden cords to draw us home to 

God; 
They follow us through joy and woe, they reach o'er 

land and wave : 
The first beside the cradle found, the last beside the 

grave. 

Compared with hers, all other love is like an April day. 
That folds its smiles and frowns at last in cold gray mists 

away. 
As boundless as the universe, as pure as heaven above, 
Enduring as eternity, such is a mother's love ! 



NO MORE. 51 



NO MORE. 

The gold that flushed the waters 

Has faded all away, 
And Night has wrapped the mountains 

In veils of solemn gray ; 
With clinging steps we linger 

Upon the dreary shore, 
And look across the ocean 

For sails that come no more. 

When life was in its splendor. 

And hearts were brave and high, 
With sunshine on the water. 

And summer in the sky, 
Our ships with spreading canvas 

Went bounding from the shore, 
But years and years departed. 

And yet they came no more. 

What buoyant hopes and fancies, 

What flashing gems untold. 
Within our gallant vessels 

Across the billows rolled ! 
O winds, in might so cruel ! 

O sea, with angry roar ! 
Where have ye swept our treasures ? 

Why do they come no more ? 



52 THE PAINTER. 

When busy day is over, 

And Night with soothing palm 
Smoothes out the brow's deep furrows, 

And brings the spirit calm, 
It seems a mournful pleasure 

To look from Life's dull shore 
Across the Past's broad ocean 

For ships that come no more. 



THE PAINTER. 
[a story told to a boy.] 

A story, do you ask ? What shall I tell you ? 

No childish tale could please your ear, I know. 
Perchance a sketch of belted knight or hero 

Who fought for glory in the long ago, 
Or of some bard whose voice with tempest's power 

Swept over nations bowed 'neath heavy wrongs, 
Till roused they flung their fetters at their tyrants, 

And marched to freedom sounding forth his songs. 
Not these, you say. Your eye is ever seeking 

The beautiful in outline and in hue. 
And so you wish to hear about an artist 

Who was in school a careless boy like you. 
Well, such a one I see in cloudy distance 

While glancing back through Memory's haunted halls- 



THE PAINTER. 53 

A youth whose busy hand with curious pictures 
Disfigured writing-books and slates and walls. 

At tasks he was a listless, aimless dreamer, 
Because his truant thoughts would ever roam ; 

The waters called, the forests seemed to beckon, 
The rugged hill-sides were his spirit's home. 



His boyhood o'er, he seized the sunset's splendors, 

He captured mountains in their lofty pride. 
And chained broad leagues of raging, storm-lashed ocean 

On bits of canvas two or three feet wide. 
The noblest forms, the fairest, purest faces, 

Upon his easel woke to being fair, 
And holiness was pictured so divinely 

Its beauty seemed a deep, unspoken prayer. 

You say he was a genius, highly gifted ; 

So says the world, my little friend, but then 
He was besides an earnest, faithful toiler. 

Devoted to his art and fellow-men. 
He gathered round him many young aspirants 

To whom he was an able friend and true, 
Imparted aid and courage to the shrinking, 

Discerned the good in all that met his view. 
Art was to him a sacred inspiration, 

The bright expression of eternal truth. 
Its aim to elevate and to ennoble, 

To it he gave his fervent, hopeful youth. 



54 GONE. 

** And lived he long, and was he happy, famous ? " 

You ask. Well, fame is oft an empty sound ; 
And useful lives have little room for sorrow, 

With solid happiness they all abound ; 
'Tis he who lives the best that lives the longest, 

However brief his time on earth appears ; 
For wasted days are blank as barren seasons. 

And time is reckoned best by deeds, not years. 
Our artist's toil is done. Perhaps to-morrow 

Some copies of his grandest works you'll see, 
And in the future, vast and full of promise, 

You may become as good and great as he. 



GONE. 



Turn for a moment and let us look back 

Over the plains of the past. 
Over the road we have trodden since birth; 

Where will it lead us at last ? 
Where are the pleasures that brightened our path ? 

Where are the joys that have flown ? 
List to the answer the heart murmurs low: 

Oh, they are gone, gone ! 

Where are the beautiful days of our youth ? 

Where are the friends once so dear ? 
Some went to sleep in those beautiful days, 

Leaving us heart-stricken here. 



GONE. 55 

Then for a time did the heavens seem dark, 

Swiftly the world hurried on, 
And in its bustle our friends we forgot. 

For they were gone, gone. 

We are no happier now for the joys 

Bound with the far-away years ; 
We are no sadder for sorrows that once 

Wrung from us bitterest tears. 
Riches and honors are sunbeams that fade, 

Even as yesterday's dawn ; 
Qnly our good works or ill will remain 

When we are gone, gone. 

When we have dropped like the leaves from the trees, 

When we are laid in the sod. 
Still will the world be as busy as now ; 

All will forget us but God. 
What do we win by our struggles and toils. 

Recklessly hurrying on, 
Grasping at gains that will only be dust 

When we are gone, gone? 

Soon must the swift-running stream of our time 

Blend with eternity's sea; 
Oh, if our lives are but dreams of a dream. 

What shall the wakening be ? 
E'en when our clay, when the earth is no more, 

Still must our spirits live on, 
Happy or hopeless — oh, which shall they be 

When we are gone, gone ! 



56 CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 



CHRISTMAS CHIMES. 

The golden lamps of heaven hung bright, 

In Judah's midnight sky, 
Like rays of glory darting through 

The sapphire dome on high, 
When down the azure avenues 

Was borne, in strains sublime, 
The trooping angels' joyous hymn, 

The first glad Christmas chime. 

" To God be glory ; peace to men," 

The happy angels sang. 
*' Illume a world in darkness hurled," 
The starry cymbals rang. 
" The Babe divine whose love shall shine 

Through every age and clime, 
For man is born this glorious morn," 
So pealed that Christmas chime. 

Though centuries have flown since first 

That anthem grand was sung — 
Each passing year its welcome notes 

In Christian lands have rung. 
A sound of hope to every heart, 

Of cheer to every clime. 
Of God's enduring love for man, 

The holy Christmas chime. 



PRAY FOR THE DEAD. 57 

O spheres that sing ! O bells that ring ! 

Lift up your tones to heaven, 
That every wrong may righted be, 

And every foe forgiven ; 
That ransomed lands their chainless hands 

May raise in every clime 
To freedom's God, and hail with joy 

The pealing Christmas chime. 

O blessed bells ! bring cheer to all, 

The sad, the poor, the lone, 
Who shivering crouch by cheerless hearths, 

Or bowed in anguish moan ; 
Make human hearts, with gen'rous deeds, 

Enrich this festal time, 
That even Want and Woe may smile 

To hear the Christmas chime. 



PRAY FOR THE DEAD. 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead ! 
Kneel in thought where the withered grasses 

Rustling sway o'er a once bright head; 
Summer dies, and the dying flowers 

Sigh, " Remember your loved and dead." 
Fading, fluttering, whirling, falling. 

Leaves come down with a sob of pain — 



58 PRAY FOR THE DEAD. 

Come to cover the dear ones lying 
Under the cold November rain — 

Cold as clay when the soul has fled ; 
Oh, pray, pray for the dead! 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead ! 
Every second Death is calling. 

Dear ones fall like the autumn leaves ; 
Where's the grove that has lost no garland ? 

Where's the home where no mourner grieves ?- 
Grieves for those who, perhaps, in anguish. 

Barred from glory, are doomed to roam. 
Voiceless, helpless. Oh, you loved them ! 

Beg our Father to call them home — 
Home from suffering, darkness, dread ; 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead ! 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead ! 
Pray for those whom the yawning billows 

Swallowed down in their fearful wrath, 
Those who, scorched by the breath of fever, 

Fell like grass in the mower's path. 
Those who dropped by the way unnoticed. 

Those who died in the battle's din, 
All are loved by our Lord, and holy, 

All must suffer who stoop to sin ; 
Plead for rest for each weary head, 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead ! 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead ! 
Buried friends, can we e'er forget you — 



FLAG OF ERIN. 59 

You who felt for our weal or woe ? 
God be with you, our silent sleepers, 

Lying under the turf so low. 
Useless, vain is our weak bewailing — 

Vain are murmur and sob and tear; 
What, oh, what can our grief avail you, 

Lifeless dust that was once so dear ? 
Hark! a sigh from each lowly bed: 

Oh, pray, pray for the dead. 



FLAG OF ERIN. 



Banner of our Irish nation, 
Take again thy rightful station. 
For the foreign rag of crimson 

Must be torn from off thy shore ; 
High in freedom's noble vanguard 
Thou shalt float, our green old standard, 
Hidden long 'neath dust and ruin- 
Up, and face the day once more. 

Up, and wave o'er mount and valley, 
All the true shall round thee rally, 
And the false shall flee before thee, 
Swept as by a whirlwind's might ; 



00 FLAG OF ERIN. 

Down with despots — slave or master, 
Celt or Saxon — may disaster 
Crush their crafty, crawling spirits 
In the dust from Erin's sight. 

Cleave thy cloud and rush to glory, 
Sunburst that hast waved where gory 
Swept Potomac, Rhine and Tagus 

Past the Irish soldiers' graves — 
Lying far from sad old Eire, 
Who, Prometheus-like, in weary 
Chains lies bound, a prey to vultures 

On her rock beside the waves. 

Glorious flag, whose radiance golden 

Shed upon the ages olden 

Light when all around was darkness, 

Fondly on thy folds we gaze ; 
For no falsehood, no dishonor 
Ever stained our dear old banner, 
Sanctified by blood of heroes — 

God make bright its future days ! 

Flag of beauty, flag of splendor. 
May old Erin's sons defend her, 
Till thy folds shall float above her 

Free as shines the noonday sun ; 
Till the hated links that bind her 
Shall with scorn be flung behind her ; 
Till fair freedom smiles upon her. 

By her children's valor won. 



CASHEL. 6i 



CASHEL. 

[The cathedral and palace of Cashel, built by Cormac, 
the Bishop-King, in the ninth century, and magnificent 
even in their decay, are splendid proofs of the perfection 
of Irish architecture in that early age.] 

Majestic pile, whose hoary forehead rises 

In proud defiance of the storms of time. 
Great king of ruins, on thy rock throne seated 

In lonely grandeur, solemn, sad, subHme, 
The footsteps of a thousand years have trodden 

The changing universe since thou wert young ; 
Since through thy sculptured aisles and lofty arches 

In solemn strains Jehovah's praises rung — 
Thou seemest left to tell our race to-day 
Of power destroyed, of glory passed away. 

Gray, venerable wreck of vanished ages. 

With rev'rent love we view thy crumbling walls, 
And think upon the valiant, good and noble. 

Whose presence cheered thy now deserted halls. 
Till from their mold'ring tombs within thy portals 

The priests and kings, the saints and chiefs of yore 
At fancy's touch arise in life and vigor. 

And thou art " Cashel of the Kings " once more ; 
Thy palace courts by regal feet are trod ; 
Thou'rt Learning's home, Religion's blest abode. 



62 CASHEL. 

Th)^ holy founder, king and sage and prelate, 

Who blameless wore the mitre and the crown, 
Again appears at thy resplendent altars, 

Jehovah's choicest blessings calling down 
Upon the people whom he ruled so mildly; 

And after him the long and stately line 
Of mitred brows that each to each succeeded, 

The sainted guardians of thy sacred shrine ; 
And tapers blaze, and solemn chant and prayer 
Float heavenward on the incense-breathing air. 

O sacred spot ! how can we think upon thee. 

On what thou wert and what thou art to-day. 
Thy crumbling tombs, thy rent and trampled altars, 

Thy grandeur splendid in its sad decay. 
And not look back with mingled pride and sorrow 

To brighter days when thou wert all our own ? 
Pride that thou'rt left to-day of them to tell us. 

Grief that they have, alas ! forever flown — 
That desolation stalks thy lonely halls, 
And tempests fiercely lash thy roofless walls ? 

Aye, roofless ! for the barbarous invaders 

Who filled our land with ruin, blood and death, 
Despoiled thy consecrated shrine to cover 

The alien temple of an alien faith. 
The rushing tides of rolling years have risen 

With whelming force against thy rocky base, 
But all in vain have time and tyrants striven 

Thy majesty and glory to eflace ; 



OUR CAPTIVE BROTHERS. 63 

Thy grim old pillar tower with sturdy pride 

Their rage has mocked, their worthless power defied. 

So mayst thou stand till a new era's dawning 

Shall wake the spirits of the mighty dead, 
Or bid the living blush to wear the fetters 

Whose hated links to break their fathers bled. 
Then when the glorious, heaven-born light of freedom 

With glad life thrills each mountain, glen and plain, 
Thou, too, shalt catch its God-created spirit, 

Thy trampled altars shall arise again ; 
And though a crown may never more be thine, 
Thou'lt be the dwelling of a King divine. 



OUR CAPTIVE BROTHERS. 
[the state prisoners of 1865-1870.] 

God's blessing on each noble head 

That's bowed for Ireland's sake, 
And on each spirit proud and high 

That tyrants fain would break 
O brothers in the cause of right, 

By suffering made more dear. 
What wonder that your wrongs should wring 

From every heart a tear. 

Illustrious victims, sacrificed 
On Erin's sacred shrine, 



64 OUR CAPTIVE BROTHERS. 

High types of human greatness, made 

By suff ring half divine, 
Though cramped in moldy, tomb-like cells 

Your tortured forms must lie, 
Your spirits soar where freedom dwells. 

Your names can never die. 

Although your eyes must learn to watch 

A brutal menial's nod, 
Your bleeding hands must toil to please 

The vilest Saxon clod. 
Your souls must bear the coward jeers 

That sting like poisoned darts ; 
'Tis Ireland's coldness and neglect 

Alone can wound your hearts. 

O sons and daughters of our isle. 

This vast world of the West 
Has millions of the scattered Gael 

Upon its boundless breast ; 
And surely none in peaceful sleep 

Could ever close an eye 
If Irish martyr's wife or child 

In want or woe should die. 

Our country's honor, duty, love, 
In tones of power command 

That we to these, her stricken ones, 
Extend a gen'rous hand, 



FLORAL WORSHIP. 65 

Nor count a boon what is their right — 

We know 'tis only fair, 
While heroes claim a nation's pride, 

rheir children claim her care. 



FLORAL WORSHIP. 

The morn, faint mirror of Jehovah's smile, 
Poured its reflected radiance o'er the world. 
And gloom gave place to glory. Richly robed 
In gold and crimson ripples sang the streams. 
Through veils of pale gray mist the mountain brows 
Flushed amethyst and purple, and where'er 
A slanting ray fell on the flowers, each seemed 
To feel as if God's finger lightly touched 
Its sleeping eyelids, and He said : Awake. 

From bright green belfries all the blue-bells rang 
A matin chime that called in low, sweet tones 
The floral sisterhood to morning prayer. 
The lowly violets with a tear of joy 
In each blue, half-shut eye, looked up to God, 
As children seek a loving parent's face; 
The lilies oped their snowy satin vests 
That He might read their glowing golden hearts; 
The roses, waking from their scented sleep, 
Raised heavenward their first sweet, odorous sighs; 
The slender cypresses bent meekly down 
5 



66 THE CONQUEROR'S TOMB. 

And offered up the rosaries of pearls 

Which Night had strung upon their quivering vines; 

The honeysuckles, climbing skyward, blew 

Their golden trumpets, and the swaying reeds 

Sang softly by the shadowed lakelet's side. 

Where glimmered water-lilies, like pale stars 

That lingered still, forgetting Night had flown ; 

The loveliest blossom and the lowest leaf 

That glittered 'neath the diamonds of the dew, 

United in a universal prayer, 

And offered their meet tribute to their God. 

Fair floral worshipers, ye pure of heart, 

Oh, may we learn from you to bless that Power 

That gave the holy dew of his Son's blood 

To nourish our weak souls, and wash them white 

From every stain, that when from earth removed 

They'll bloom as liHes round his throne above ! 



THE CONQUEROR'S TOMB. 

*Twas in a grand old minster, 

Amid the splendid gloom 
Of buried pride and grandeur, 

They made the conqueror's tomb, 



THE CONQUEROR'S TOMB. 67 

Piled high with storied marble, 

Whose pale lips mutely told 
The deeds of him who 'neath it 

Lay crumbling into mold. 

Upon that tomb were graven 

The buried warrior's name, 
And many deeds of valor 

That long were known to fame ; 
While lofty-sounding titles 

By regal power bestowed, 
Told 'twas no common ashes 

That filled that dread abode. 

Fair was that white death-palace. 

So stately, cold and lone; 
A sword en wreathed in laurel 

Was sculptured on the stone — 
The sword of him whose prowess 

Made mighty monarch s bow : 
How much of earth he vanquished! 

How little holds him now ! 

That pile of icy splendor 

Is soulless, earthly, dumb ; 
It breathes no thought of heaven, 

No hope for life to come ; 
The curious crowds who visit 

That minster old and gray, 
There pause in admiration, 

But never kneel to pray. 



68 THE CONQUEROR'S TOMB. 

For he who sleeps beneath it 

Derided holy things, 
Forgot the God of glory 

In serving selfish kings ; 
And in his march to power 

On quivering hearts he trod ; 
Dread ruin was his altar, 

Ambition was his god. 

O worldly fame and grandeur. 

Thou vain and fleeting breath, 
In life how courted, envied, 

How desolate in death ! 
The green grave of the lowly. 

Who toiled in hope and trust. 
Is far more loved and honored 

Than is the conqueror's dust. 

The hands he helped to labor 

Plant daisies on his breast; 
The hearts he cheered when weary, 

Pray for his spirit's rest ; 
While rain and sunshine o'er him 

Keep fresh and green the sod. 
And no false, frozen marble 

Shuts out the smile of God. 



THE SONGS OF EIRE. 69 



THE SONGS OF EIRE. 

'Tis said our songs are sorrowful, 

But how can they be gay ? 
For who could breathe of hope or joy 

Surrounded by decay ? 
'Tis vain to bid the aching heart 

Of mirth and gladness sing, 
Or strive to make the harp rejoice 

While tears bedew each string. 

Our music is our country's voice, 

So often drowned in woe, 
The fun'ral dirge that from her lips 

Seems ever doomed to flow ; 
The bitter plaint wrung forth when she 

Beholds her children slaves ; 
The tones of one whose days and nights 

Are passed 'mong kindred graves. 

When notes of joy or triumph stray 

Our mournful strains among, 
They seem to us the echoes of 

Some long forgotten song, 
Or messages from vanished years 

That tell of glory o'er. 
And bid the slave more loudly wail 

That he is free no more. 



70 BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

Old Eire's soul is crushed and sad, 

Then sad our songs must be ; 
The harp must sigh through waves of tears 

Until our land is free ; 
Till then its chords should ne'er be tuned 

To light or gleeful strains, 
Lest for a moment we forget 

That Eire sleeps in chains. 



BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

A sob of mighty anguish shakes 

The grieving nation's breast, 
As bowed in bitterness she mourns 

Her greatest gone to rest. 
Ah, fearful woe ! her drooping eyes 

Can ne'er behold again 
The guardian genius of her homes, 

The morning star of Spain. 

A heavy cloud hangs o'er Castile, 

Her highest hopes go down, 
Fcr Death has bowed the noblest head 

That ever wore a crown; 
In lordly hall and lowly hut 

Are tears of anguish shed — 
An orphan land may well lament 

A matchless parent dead. 



BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 7 J 

Stilled is the high unselfish heart, 

The great and gifted mind, 
That with a woman's gentleness 

A hero's power combined. 
Stern warrior's bow their heads in grief. 

For oft that slender form 
With hope and courage cheered them on 

Amid the battle's storm. 

Cold is the open, generous hand 

Of her who freely gave 
Her jewels rare to trace a path 

Across the trackless wave ; 
For whom the venturous flag of Spain 

Beside the cross unfurled 
Its silken folds — the first to wave 

Above the Western world. 

No glitt'ring pomp of royal state, 

No proud and vain display, 
Accompanies that soverign dust 

Unto its house of clay ; 
For she, whose grandly regal soul 

Has to its Father soared. 
Would imitate, e'en after death. 

The Savior she adored. 

As slow the sad procession goes 

In silence through the land. 
The poor their prayers and tears outpour 

For her whose kindly hand 



^2 BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 

Was ever open in their need, 

For she in truth had been 
To them a guardian spirit bright — 

A mother while a queen. 

A-cross fair Andalusia's plains 

The tempest's black wings sweep, 
And wildly beat on her who lies 

In pallid, dreamless sleep ; 
Wide over all the land is flung 

A pall of darkest gloom. 
While she who was its life and light 

Is carried to the tomb. 

At last Alhambra's crimson towers 

Against the sky are seen. 
Where, throned 'mid dark green orange groves, 

Granada sits a queen : 
That fairer queen whose lofty faith, 

Whose hope and courage high. 
Regained it from the Moslem foe, 

Comes in its dust to lie. 

The cavaliers, with sombre plumes, 

And solemn pace and slow. 
As through the Moorish arches dim 

All mournfully they go. 
Recall the day they entered them 

In triumph years before. 
And sigh that she they followed then 

Can lead them nevermore. 



BURIAL OF ISABELLA OF CASTILE. 73 

High o'er the ancient Moslem domes 

The gleaming cross is seen, 
The silent marble halls beneath 

Receive their voiceless queen ; 
The solemn requiem is sung, 

And in the cloister's shade, 
With incense, prayer, and taper's gleam, 

The royal dust is laid. * 

Religion mourns her brightest gem. 

Her shield of glory gone. 
And Spain her strength, her star of hope. 

Her purest spirit flown ; 
All Christendom laments for her 

Unto the grave consigned. 
Who gave her every thought and deed 

To God and to her kind. 

Cold are the glitt'ring tears that fall 

For perishing renown, 
Save when the good as well as great 

To death and dust go down ; 
And 'mid the crowned and sceptred dead 

The eye will seek in vain 
One loved so well, so truly mourned. 

As Isabel of Spain. 



74 THE MOUNTAINS. 



THE MOUNTAINS. 

A land of plains may hug her chains, 

Or wreathe them round with flowers, 
For sluggish ease is born in vales 

And nursed in rosy bowers ; 
A mountain land, with flaming brand, 

Will rush on the invader. 
Resolved to be forever free 

As the Almighty made her. 
The languid mind delight may find 

'Mong shady groves and fountains • 
The strong of heart and stout of limb 

Are found among the mountains — 

The chainless, changeless mountains. 
When Freedom's hunted from the plains 

She's welcomed to the mountains. 

Blue mountains of our Irish land. 

Like guardians grim above her? 
In stern defiance strong you stand. 

The hope of those who love her. 
The ancient kerne, o'er heath and fern, 

Oft rushed against the stranger; 
A few to-day, as brave as they, 

Must seek the hills in danger. 



THOMAS DAVIS. 75 

While tyrants trample Erin's plains, 

And tinge with blood her fountains, 
The eagle hearts they strive to crush 

Are sheltered by the mountains — 

The grand, eternal mountains — 
The refuge of our struggling land ; 

God bless the Irish mountains! 

O holy hills ! your thousand rills, 

From soil untainted leaping, 
Shout Freedom's anthems to the plains. 

While swiftly seaward sweeping. 
** No chains," they chant, " were e'er too strong 

For hero hands to sever ; 
The brave and proud are sometimes bowed, 

But can be conquered never. 
The mountain air sweeps off despair, 

Of action sings the fountains; 
Then up, and be forever free 

While stand the Irish mountains — 

The bold, the rugged mountains ; 
To guard our nation's liberty 

God made the Irish mountains. 



THOMAS DAVIS. 

O pure and glorious patriot soul, 
In Erin's hallowed mold 

Thy great and gen'rous hero-heart 
Is resting, calm and cold ; 



76 THOMAS DAVIS. 

But Still thy chainless spirit breathes 

In every passing gale 
That fans the brows of slaves that bow 

In mourning Innisfail. 

Though empires crumble into dust 

As age on age goes by, 
The memory of a life like thine 

Can neither fade nor die ; 
Thy life within its mighty grasp 

The universe could span, 
Its daily worship — boundless love 

For crushed and fallen man. 

Like mountain torrents bold and free 

Thy numbers leap along ; 
Cold, cold must be the Irish heart 

That thrills not at thy song ; 
And truthfully did Erin read 

In every glowing word, 
The hand that held that breathing pen 

For her would wield the sword. 

Strong love of land, a vestal flame, 

Burned in thy dauntless eye ; 
Thy noble brow bespoke a mind 

Whose aims were pure and high ; 
Alas ! that o'er that brow so soon 

The cypress bough should wave! 
Oh ! bitter tears did Erin shed 

Above thy early grave. 



AUTUMN LEAVES. ^^ 

Among her worshiped heroes thou 

Shalt ever foremost stand ; 
When Freedom's flashing sun shall blaze 

Above our rescued land, 
She'll pause amid her triumphs, o'er 

Thy blighted hopes to sigh ; 
While her eternal mountains stand 

Thy memorv shall not die. 

Though now thy bounding heart is cold, 

Thy fearless spirit flown, 
Tnnumbered souls have caught the flame 

That burned within thy own. 
Borne up through heaven's aisles, thou'lt hear 

A shout of triumph ring, 
When Ireland bows to God alone 

And owns no other king. 



AUTUMN LEAVES. 

The far out-stretching woodlands, this glorious autumn 

day. 
Are brilliant with the beauty preceding swift decay. 
While Nature's grand cathedral upon its floor receives 
Its column's crowning glory — bright wreaths of autumn 

leaves. 



78 AUTUMN LEAVES. 

As slow they're drifting downward with low and whisper- 
ing sound, 
In hues of fleeting beauty they paint the russet ground, 
With sombre shadows fancy our life- web interweaves 
As low the winds are wailing among the fallen leaves. 

Out in the sighing forest they rustle 'neath our tread, 
Like faint, half-smothered echoes of voices from the 

dead, 
Or like some wandering spirit that, sad and restless, 

grieves 
O'er all its bright days wasted, wild moan the autumn 

leaves. 

Like them our lives are changing, like them, we too must 
fade, 

When pass our few brief seasons of sunshine and of 
shade; 

And though our disappearing some home or heart be- 
reaves, 

We're soon no more remembered than withered autumn 
leaves. 

Oh, moaning leaves of autumn ! as drear were earthly 

life 
Was there no glorious future, undimmed by grief and 

strife. 
Where heart-strings are unbroken, and where no spirit 

grieves ; 
Where He no faded flowers nor withered autumn leaves. 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 79 



THE NIGHTINGALE. 

This warbler sweet, whose thrilling notes to our en- 
raptured ears 

Seem harmonies that burst and float from distant singing 
spheres, 

Was silent once — a bird to whom no voice of song was 
given, 

Till charmed by melodies that rolled from out the gates 
of heaven. 

Those sounds celestial seemed her heart in floods of 

bliss to drown; 
Then earth was nearer heaven, for sin had not yet 

weighed it down ; 
With panting breast and eager wing the little list'ner 

soared 
Where happy angel choirs to God their grand hosannas 

poured. 

One massive lyre of gleaming gold was placed before 

the throne — 
Harp of the universe, whose chords God's hand might 

touch alone; 



8o THE NIGHTINGALE. 

Bewildered by its surging strains, she brushed it with her 

wings, 
And leaned her little flutt'ring breast against its sacred 

strings. 

A gush of music swelled and streamed in waves of glory- 
round, 

And bathing in delight, the bird her gift immortal found; 

But ah ! her heart was all too weak to bear such burden 
long— 

The daring minstrel found that death came with the 
dower of song. 

To ev'ry nightingale since then that treasure must de- 
scend, 

And each must pour her heart away till song and being 
end; 

Yet not one warbler would exchange that life so brief 
and bright 

For silent ages, e'en though filled with loveliness and 
light. 

Immortal singer, we, like thee, should choose a busy 

life 
Of labor, earnest, useful, high ; of noble, lofty strife. 
Far better wear the heart away for right and truth and 

God, 
Than crawl through selfish, useless years, and sink to 

earth — a clod. 



WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 8i 



WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 

The chieftain gazed with moistened eyes upon the vet'ran 

band 
Who braved with him the battle's storm for God and 

for their land; 
The parting hour at last had come — o'er prairie, mount 

and sea 
The glad shout burst from countless hearts : Our land, 

our land is free ! 

Then up from every altar rose a hymn of praise to God, 
Who nerved the patriot hearts and arms to free their 

native sod; 
The stormy strife of grief and gloom, of blood and death 

was o'er, 
The heroes who survived its wrath might seek their 

homes once more. 

With swelling hearts and foreheads bowed they gathered 

round their chief. 
The parting day to them was one of mingled joy and 

grief; 
They thought of all his love and care, his patience sorely 

tried, 

Of how he shared their wants and woes, and with them 

death defied. 
6 



82 WASHINGTON'S FAREWELL TO HIS ARMY. 

Back to that fearful night they looked when 'mid the 

storm he stood 
Beside the icy Delaware to guide them o'er its flood — 
To crimson fields where thick as leaves upon an autumn 

day 
The tawny savage warriors and British foemen lay. 

They thought of many cheerless camps where lay the 
sick and dead, 

Where oft that stately form was bent beside the sufferer's 
bed; 

Well had he won the deathless love of all that hero- 
band — 

Their friend and guide, their nation's hope, the savior 
of their land. 

And he, too, saw what they endured to break their 

country's chains — 
Their naked footprints stamped in blood on Jersey's 

frozen plains ; 
The gloomy huts at Valley Forge, where Winter's icy 

breath 
Froze many brave hearts' crimson flow, chained many 

arms in death. 

He looked upon their war-thinned ranks, and sighed for 

those who fell — 
It stirred the depths of his great heart to say the word 

" Farewell ! " 



GOD PITY THE POOR. 83 

He saw strong men who, facing death, had never thought 

of fear, 
Dash from their scarred and sun-browned cheeks the 

quickly-gushing tear. 

He stood in the receding boat, his noble brow laid bare, 
The tossing fingers of the breeze strayed through his 

silv'ry hair ; 
While to his trusty followers, the sternly tried and true, 
Whose sad eyes watched him from the shore, he waved 

a last adieu. 

Earth shows no laureled conqueror so truly great as he, 
Who laid the sword and power aside when once his land 

was free ; 
Who calmly sought his quiet home when Freedom's fight 

was won. 
While with one voice the Nation cried, " God bless our 

Washington ! " 



GOD PITY THE POOR. 

The wild, rushing wings of the tempest are sweeping 
The frost-fettered land like a spirit of wrath ; 

His fierce, icy breath with keen arrows is piercing 
The breasts of the wand'rers who stand in his path; 



84 GOD PITY THE POOR. 

The earth in a trance lies enshrouded in silence, 
The storm king knocks loudly at window and door; 

The prayer of the pitiful fervently rises — 
God shelter the homeless and pity the poor 1 



God pity the poor who are wearily sitting 

By desolate hearth-stones, cold, cheerless and bare. 
From which the last ember's pale flicker has faded, 

Like Hope dying out in the midst of despair; 
Who look on the wide world and see it a desert 

Where ripple no waters, no green branches wave. 
Who see in a future as dark as the present 

No rest but the death-bed, no home but the grave. 



God pity the poor when the eddying snow-drifts 

Are whirled by the wrath of the winter wind by, 
Like showers of leaves from the pallid star-lilies 

That float in the depths of the blue lake on high ; 
For though they are draping the broad earth in beauty, 

And veiling some flaw in each gossamer fold, 
That beauty is naught to the mother whose children 

Are crouching around her in hunger and cold. 

God pity the poor, for the wealthy are often 
As hard as the winter, and cold as its snow ; 

While fortune makes sunshine and summer around them, 
They care not for others nor think of their woe ; 



LIFE. 85 

Or if from their plenty a trifle be given, 
So doubtingly, grudgingly, often 'tis doled, 

That to the receiver their " charity " seemeth 

More painful than hunger, more bitter than cold. 

God pity the poor ! for though all men are brothers, 

Though all say " Our Father," not mine^ when they pray, 
The proud ones of earth turn aside from the lowly. 

As if they were fashioned of different clay ; 
They see not in those who in meekness and patience 

Toil, poverty, pain, without murmur endure, 
The image of Him whose first couch was a manger. 

Who chose for our sakes to be homeless and poor. 

God pity the poor ! give them courage and patience 

Their trials, temptations and troubles to brave, 
And pity the wealthy whose idol is Fortune, 

For gold can not gladden the gloom of the grave ; 
And as this brief life, whether painful or pleasant. 

To one that is endless but opens the door, 
The heart sighs while thinking on palace and hovel, 

God pity the wealthy as well as the poor. 



LIFE. 

Swiftly, swiftly pass the changing seasons, 
Fast our days of toil are passing, too ; 

Often to our minds the question rises : 

What have we been placed on earth to do? 



36 LIFE. 

Yet some high and noble task was surely 

At our birth to each of us consigned, 
Something to engage in earnest effort 
All the strength of will and heart and mind. 

But too often from the seeming trifles 

That might brighten life, we turn aside, 
While we vainly aim at some achievement 

Vast and grand to satisfy our pride ; 
Something that shall crown our names with honor 

In the ages that are yet to come, 
Never dreaming that the greatest duties 

Are the ones that lie the nearest home. 

In creation, works the most stupendous 

Are made up of particles so small 
That the myriads of sleepless angels 

Would in vain attempt to count them all ; 
So if we the least and lowest duties 

Day by day perform with willing hand. 
In symmetrical and fair proportions 

They will rise — a life complete and grand. 

Each may be a preacher, and can often, 
'Mid the great world's busy, ceaseless hum. 

Pour forth eloquent, sublime discourses, 

Though the voice be mute, the lip be dumb; 

True and lofty teachings are not always 
Best expounded by the speaker's art; 



LIFE. 87. 

Pure and useful lives are living sermons, 
Ones that go directly to the heart. 

Each can be a poet, God has given 

Soul and brain for symphonies sublime, 
Strains that shall be heard above the clangor 

Of the rushing chariot wheels of time ; 
Yearnings that forever upward, onward, 

After higher, holier things aspire ; 
Glowing words to wake immortal echoes, 

Master hand to sweep a deathless lyre. 

Not in massive tomes of gold and crimson 

Need man's noblest works be written down, 
For 'tis not by written poems only 

He can win the gleaming laurel crown ; 
There are silent souls whose soundless anthems, 

Heard alone the angel choirs among, 
Shame the works of proudest bard that ever 

Roamed the lofty spirit halls of song. 

Oft are life's secluded, humble by-ways 

By the feet of voiceless poets trod — 
Gen'rous souls whose deeds of love and mercy 

Are a daily hymn of praise to God, 
He who cheers the sad and weary-hearted. 

To the needy timely succor brings, 
Works for God and for his fellow-creatures, 

Lives the poem that another sings. 



88 FESTAL SONG. 

All are artists, who are daily giving 

Tints of glowing beauty, hues of light 
To a picture meant to be eternal. 

Or defacing it with spot and blight ; 
If upon the stainless spirit-canvas, 

Which our actions all should beautify, 
Coarse, unsightly daubs appear, how can it 

Grace the Master's galleries on high ? 

Then, O earnest hearts ! be active preachers 

In the field of duty God has given ; 
Then, O poet souls ! be faithful teachers. 

Ever lifting up our thoughts to heaven ; 
Then, O painter! on thy life's fair canvas 

Let the brightest shapes of beauty shine, 
Let each day the work become more perfect, 

Meant to be immortal and divine. 



FESTAL SONG. 

[for the CELTIC SOCIETIES.] 

Here in the broad and blooming West, beside the mighty 

river, 
With faith as true to Freedom's land as loyal hearts can 

give her, 



FESTAL SONG. 89 

We meet to sing of one green isle, forgotten never, never, 
And this the burden of our song : Our green old land 
forever. 



From north and south, from east and west of that old 

storied island, 
We meet as brothers earnest, true, for sake of your and 

my land ; 
Our souls are strongly bound to her with links no time 

can sever, 
God's blessing on her distant shore — our green old land 

forever. 

Though many years have drifted past, some sad, some 

fair and cheering. 
Since tearfully we looked our last upon the hills of Erin ; 
Old scenes arise before our eyes in fadeless beauty ever, 
For cherished mem'ries cling around our dear old land 

forever. 

Then in the broad and blooming West, beside her 

mighty river, 
With love as strong for Freedom's land as loyal hearts 

can give her. 
While to the new we're staunch and true, we'll cherish 

fondly ever 
The mem'ry of the isle we left — our dear old land 

forever. 



90 LAST NIGHT OF JOAN OF ARC. 



LAST NIGHT OF JOAN OF ARC. 

Night dons her jeweled coronet — 

A miUion diamonds, sapphire-set, 

A milHon starry worlds whose rays 

Around her brow in splendor blaze ; 

She waves her sable-sceptred hand 

And darkness shadows sea and land, 

But deeper, darker still it falls 

Around the lonely prison walls. 

Within, the lamp's dull, sickly glare 

Reveals a figure bowed in prayer — 

A fair young girl whose soul-lit eye 

Speaks of communings pure and high. 

Hers is a strangely wondrous face, 

For in it, blent with maiden grace 

And girlhood's gentle, timid air, 

Is seen a spirit brave to dare 

And strong to conquer ; steadfast faith 

To triumph over grief and death. 

Her crafty persecutors gone, 

In spirit bowed she kneels alone, 

And prays that Power at whose command 

She rose to free her fettered land, 

To be her shield in every ill. 

And give her strength to do his will. 



LAST NIGHT OF JOAN OF ARC. 91 

Then swift as light her thoughts go back 

Along the Past's familiar track — 

The fields where oft in childhood's hours 

She watched her flock and gathered flowers — 

The lowly hamlet chapel, where 

Each day was breathed her fervent prayer — 

Her cottage homestead's humble walls, 

To her more dear than palace halls — 

All meet her view ; she pictures there 

Her father with his silv'ry hair 

Grown brighter, and her mother's brow 

By sorrow marked, and silent now 

Her gay young brothers, whose light mirth 

Of old made glad the household hearth. 

She knows 'tis sorrow for her fate 

That makes their hearts so desolate ; 

The warrior's sternness disappears. 

The woman's cheek is wet with tears. 

Is this the chief who dauntless led 

The charge from which stern veterans fled, 

This weak, slight girl, whose limbs are bound 

By heavy iron fetters round, 

Who, shook by sorrow's tempest wild, 

Sinks sobbing, helpless as a child ? 

Aye, she it is whose dreaded lance 

Rolled back the tide of war for France ; 

Whose very name with hope inspired 

Her failing ranks, whose daring fired 



92 LAST NIGHT OF JOAN OF ARC. 

Hearts that were sinking with despair, 
And roused weak spirits up to dare ; 
Who placed upon her monarch's brow 
The crown it wears so proudly now; 
And though to her both crown and throne 
He owes, neglected and alone 
She sits beside her prison grate. 
And waits the dawn to seal her fate. 



'Tis midnight solemn, still and deep. 
But yet the captive does not sleep ; 
The thoughts that sweep her spirit's chords. 
Unchained at last, break forth in words : 
" The fatal hour at last draws nigh ; 
My country, 'tis for thee I die ! 
O France, beloved but thankless land, 
For thee I bear the felon's brand ; 
For thee to-morrow shall be given 
My ashes to the winds of heaven. 
Yet e'en the awful death of flame 
Is little to the scorn and shame 
That falsely round my name are thrown. 
And should weak nature force a groan. 
Deem not, my land, 'tis fear of death 
That chokes with grief my parting breath ; 
For though ungrateful thou hast proved, 
Thou art so deeply, fondly loved, 
That for thy sake 'tis sweet to die, 
Although thou dost not deign a sigh 



LAST NIGHT OF JOAN OF ARC. 93 

For my sad fate. 'Tis sweet to know 
My hand has helped to crush thy foe. 
And even in my latest hour 
My heart shall pray that Sovereign Power 
That nerved my arm to strike for thee, 
To make thee happy, great and free. 
To thee, my distant mountain home, 
I turn — no more my feet shall roam 
Thy flowery pastures green and fair. 
Nor shall thy freedom-breathing air 
E'er fan my brow; my father's voice 
No more shall make my heart rejoice. 
And oh, my mother, thou whose love 
Was valued next to heaven above. 
Thy tender smile, thy fond caress 
No more thy lonely child shall bless. 
'Tis bitter agony to know 
That I have blanched thy cheek with woe, 
Oh, mother, mother! that thy heart 
For me is pierced by sorrow's dart. 
Dear Queen of Sorrows, who didst feel 
An earthly mother's anguish, heal 
Her wounded soul ; with tender care 
Impart the strength her woes to bear. 
My Father, let thy blessings fall 
Like sunshine on my dear ones all, 
And stretch thy strong, protecting hand 
Forever o'er my native land ; 
To thee my spirit I commend, 



94 THE FORESTS OF THE WEST. 

Be with me, guide me to the end; 
Oh, let my soul ne'er shrink nor flee 
From death, since it but leads to thee ! " 

At length, by weariness oppressed. 
The captive closed her eyes in rest, 
And peaceful slumber deep and calm, 
That brings a sweet though transient balm 
For every ill, in pity stole 
Its downy pinions o'er her soul ; 
She slept — the dreaded funeral pyre. 
The yelling crowd, the blistering fire 
Forgot, for God perhaps had given 
To bless her dreams a glimpse of heaven, 
While angels spread their wings to shade 
The slumbers of the martyr maid. 



THE FORESTS OF THE WEST. 

How sublimely rise the forests 

Of the noble Western Land, 
Wearing leafy crowns of verdure, 

Twined by the Almighty hand; 
See them rear their hoary foreheads, 

Toss their huge arms in the blast — 
Grim old seers that stand to tell us 

Of the deeds of ages past. 



THE FORESTS OF THE WEST. 95 

'Neath their boughs the aged warriors 

Gathered round the council fire : 
Oft their shady aisles were lighted 

By the captive's fun'ral pyre ; 
Free as air the wild, red hunter 

Roamed beneath their leafy shade, 
While they echoed back the laughter 

Of the graceful Indian maid. 

But the wildwood tribes have vanished 

Slowly, sadly, one by one. 
Turning from the pale-faced strangers 

To the setting of the sun; 
Still the forests rise defiant 

Of the tempest-laden years, 
Like a host of giant warriors 

Resting on their battle spears. 

Here the monarch oaks of ages 

Seem the storm-king's wrath to scorn — 
Emblems of the patriot heroes 

Of our country's cloudy morn. 
For the arms and hearts whose prowess 

Britain's slavish fetters broke. 
Were as steady and unyielding 

As the rugged forest oak. 

Here 'mid struggle, toil and danger 
Was young Freedom's spirit nursed, 



96 THE FORESTS OF THE WEST. 

Till the splendor of her glory 

O'er the wond'ring nations burst; 

Roaming through the world a stranger, 
Here she found a place of rest ; 

Brave hands reared her lofty temple 
In the forests of the West. 

Though the hands that built that temple 

Now are folded in the grave, 
Freedom lives and still is worshiped 

Where the forest-monarchs wave ; 
Still the daring, chainless spirit 

That aroused that patriot band, 
Animates the vig'rous toilers 

Of the noble Western Land. 

Grand old woods, majestic, solemn, 

Proudly spurning time's decay, 
Watchers of the strifes and triumphs 

Of our country's early day ! 
May your broad, green aisles forever 

Be by Freedom's children trod, 
And your soil forever sacred 

Be to liberty and God. 



ST. MARY'S BELLS, LIMERICK. 97 



ST. MARY'S BELLS, LIMERICK. 

'Tis spring in glorious Italy, 

The land of art and song ; 
Its rustling breezes softly sigh 

The cypress boughs among ; 
The fragrant orange blossoms freight 

The air with their perfume ; 
Bright beam the myrtle's starry eyes 

'Mong green and glossy gloom ; 
The stately laurel wears a wreath 

That once made nations bow, 
But rears its deathless leaves no more 

To circle Caesar's brow. 

A rosy evening's blissful calm 

On earth and ocean dwells, 
While sweetly o'er the sleeping vale 

Peal out the convent bells ; 
And he who gave long years of life 

To make their voices blend 
In pure and perfect harmony. 

Now hears their tones ascend 
Up to the blue cathedral dome, 

Held by a Father's love, 
The vast aisles of the universe — 

His boundless church — above. 
7 



98 ST. MARY'S BELLS, LIMERICK. 

He listens, and his dark eye glows 

With pleasure at the sound; 
Then glances o'er a scene that seems 

With Eden's glory crowned ; 
He pictures how in that dear spot 

His life shall glide away, 
Serene and cloudless as the close 

Of that Italian day; 
His wife stands by, with beaming smile, 

His happiness to see, 
While bright-eyed children clasp his hands 

Or gambol at his knee. 

*Tis spring again, but years have sunk 

Like flakes of fallen snow 
Down in the ocean of the past, 

And mingled in its flow; 
The convent walls are battered down. 

The pealing bells are gone. 
And he who loved their tones so well 

Stands mournfully alone, 
And gazes on his ruined home — 

His home, alas ! no more — 
For War has trod with crushing step 

That land of beauty o'er. 

The sweet-home voices that he loved, 

The sunny smiles have fled, 
His wife and children calmly rest 

Among the peaceful dead; 



ST. MARY'S BELLS, LIMERICK. 99 

And spirit-crushed and sad he leaves 

The country of his birth, 
To roam, unfriended and unknown, 

A pilgrim o'er the earth. 
Within his bowed and withered heart, 

Where joy no longer dwells. 
One earthly wish alone exists — 

To hear his cherished bells. 

His desolate and dreary soul 

Of every joy bereft. 
Still clings to these — of all it loved 

The only remnant left ; 
Still grows the longing more intense 

To hear them once again. 
A trace is found, and ceaselessly, 

O'er distant land and main. 
He seeks the treasures of his youth 

Till hope is almost gone, 
Still, like the fabled bird of old, 

They lead him on and on. 

At last a stately vessel nears 

A beauteous island's shore. 
The white-haired pilgrim on its deck 

Now feels his journey o'er; 
A boat is lowered from the side. 

And in the Shannon's wave, 
Flushed crimson by the setting sun. 

Their oars the rowers lave ; 



lOO ST. MARY'S BELLS, LIMERICK. 

The old man, seated at the stern, 
Looks out with hopeful eye 

Where, pillar-like, St. Mary's spire 
Arises 'gainst the sky. 

No tumult breaks the holy calm 

Of evening's peaceful hour, 
But, bathed in waves of living gold, 

Lie shore and town and tower; 
The rowers rest upon their oars 

To view a scene so fair. 
When, sweet and clear, St. Mary's bells 

Ring out upon the air ; 
The aged wand'rer springs erect, 

His frozen pulses bound. 
The brightest years of life come back 

With that beloved sound. 

A rushing flood of mem'ries sweep 

His poor, bewildered brain ; 
He sees his fair Italian home 

And dear ones all again. 
And, sinking back, he shuts his eyes, 

Afraid to break the spell — 
Afraid to lose the echo e'en 

Of tones he loves so well. 
At last the silv'ry sounds have ceased, 

The boat has touched the strand, 
And joyously the sailors leap 

Once more upon the land. 



THE LITTLE CHAIR. lOl 

The stranger still sits motionless, 

With hands across his breast, 
A smile upon his withered face, 

His head thrown back in rest; 
They strive to rouse him, but in vain, 

They speak to clay alone, 
For with the holy ev'ning chime 

His weary soul has flown ; 
By kindly hands his grave was made 

Beneath the hallowed sod 
That daily hears Saint Mary's bells 

Bid souls look up to God. 



THE LITTLE CHAIR. 

This house is bright and cheerful as any home can be. 
With happy, ringing laughter, glad bursts of childish 

glee; 
Why does the silent mother a look of sadness wear ? 
Ah, in a shaded corner she sees a little chair ! 

There sat her blue-eyed Willie one year ago to-day. 
Oh, with what earnest pleading she prayed that he might 

stay; 
For though she knew God called him, she wished not 

yet to spare 
Her youngest, brightest darling to fill an angel's chair. 



I02 THE LITTLE CHAIR. 

His sweet, young voice is silent, she sees him smile no 

more, 
Nor hears his tiny footstep's light patter on the floor; 
The dimpled hands no longer are lifted up in prayer. 
Lisped low in childish accents beside his little chair. 



Though other children gambol all joyous at her side, 
Her sad eye vainly seeketh the little one that died ; 
Oh, bitterly she mourns him, and oft when lonely there 
Her hot tears fall in silence upon his little chair. 



Ah, many are the households where joy and sorrow 

meet! 
Homes where one link is wanting the circle to complete ; 
And if we ask what shadow of sorrow resteth there. 
Some loving hand will sadly point out an empty chair. 

What heart is there that weeps not some loved one gone 

before, 
To meet the waiting angels upon the spirit shore ? 
Since here there must be partings, oh, may it be our 

prayer 
That in our home eternal we'll mourn no empty chair ! 



THE MEN OF RUTLI. 103 



THE MEN OF RUTLI. 
[tell and his confederates.] 

While tyrants laughed at vassals' groans 

Among the Switzers' mountains grand, 
And mocked man's highest, noblest thought — 

The sacred love of native land — 
While men looked grave o'er present wrongs, 

And dreaded evils yet to be, 
A woman's words cut keen as swords 

And roused the soul of Liberty. 

" O sons of sires whose steps were free 

As winds that rend the monarch oak. 
Their very dust must writhe while you 

Thus tamely bear a slavish yoke. 
You dare the lightning's scathing eye. 

The thunder's earthquake shock and crash, 
Yet crouch to clay as if but dogs 

That whips of titled knaves may lash. 

" God made the mountains for the free, 
Yet low we crawl who ought to soar, 
What wonder if our hills in rage 

Should hurl us down to rise no more ; 



I04 THE MEN OF RUTLI. 

Their summits are the eagle's home, 

Their sides the crouching place of things 

Who toil but to be robbed and scorned 
By hireling tools of foreign kings. 

** How long shall strangers rule as lords 

Of this, our fathers' soil and ours, 
While mountain wives poor beggars nurse 

To be the serfs of foreign powers ? 
Why stand ye passive, free-born men 

Of stalwart arm and rugged brow. 
While Austrians drive your cattle off, 

And sneer : * Let peasants draw the plough ? 

No voice replies, clear brows grow black 

As Alps by tempests girdled round; 
A silence grim with stern resolve 

Holds every heart in thought profound — 
In thought that spreads, for night by night 

The stars look down on vale and glen — 
The nation's council halls of right — 

Where meet her true and earnest men. 

There comes a night when other stars 
Are flashing in the Switzer's sky, 

A night when Freedom's beacon fires 
From peak to peak are blazing high. 



THE MEN OF RUTLI. 105 

Each tower and castle in the land 

Ere morn the daring natives hold. 
But lo ! the Austrians rise in force 

To scourge them for a deed so bold. 

By thousands the invaders come ; 

The shepherd warriors, though but few, 
Feel each a match for twenty foes, 

With Freedom's towers — the Alps — in view. 
Each thinks of children, wife and home, 

Ere night the spoiler's prey or free ; 
With stern resolve their hearts grow strong, 

And all is fair for liberty. 

From towering cliff and beetling crag 

Huge rocks like leaping thunders crash; 
The solid ranks in frenzy break. 

The stout Confed'rates 'mongst them dash ; 
Crushed on Morgarten's field of death, 

The victor knights of many wars. 
The nobles of proud Austria fall 

Beneath the shepherds' morning stars.* 

Now clang and shout, defeat and rout, 

The vast invading numbers fly. 
While thickly strewn upon the ground 

In death their bravest warriors lie. 

•Clubs with iron points, called morgensiemen. 



Io6 DEAD IN HIS CELL. 

Gay plumes that kissed the morning breeze 
Are trodden down in dust and gore; 

Strong arms that struck at Hberty 

Shall wield the sword and lance no more. 

The day is done, the fight is won, 

The victors stand united, firee ; 
As was the battle on that day 

May Freedom's battles ever be. 
And so they shall when the oppressed 

Shall side by side determined stand, 
To die or drive their tyrants out, 

As did the men of Switzerland. 



"DEAD IN HIS CELL."* 

Dead in his cell ! Alas ! alas ! how often 

These heartless words are wafted o'er the sea, 
To tell us that another life is ended, 

That death has set another captive free ! 
We shrined within our hearts those who for Erin 

Walked fearless o'er the scaffold to the tomb ; 
But none beheld the agony and torture 

Of those who perished in the dungeon's gloom. 

■*Here are the names of a few of the political prisoners who died 
in their cells between the years 1865 and 1868 : 

Edward Duffy, Richard Stowell, John Hogan, William Harbison. 
WiUiam Kennedy, John Fottrell, William Kelly and John Lynch. 
For an account of the treatment of the political prisoners, see 
O' Donovan Rossa's " Six Years in EngHsh Prisons." 



DEAD IN HIS CELL. T07 

No sunbeam ever pierced their walls of darkness, 

No star looked down on them with pitying eye ; 
One dreary, rayless night of pain and horror. 

Of death in life, their prison time went by ; 
No face they saw save that of him who brought them 

Their scant but loathsome meal from day to day ; 
Who never spoke save to increase their anguish. 

Whose well-paid task was not to soothe, but slay. 

Brave band of victims to the hate and terror 

Of tyrants, great in wickedness alone. 
What messenger sent Death, the potent ruler, 

To call your spirits to Jehovah's throne ? 
Sent he pale hunger, slowly, fiercely gnawing 

Your hero hearts through sleepless night and day, 
Or pestilential air, shut from the sunlight, 

To give the gaping felon's grave its prey ? 

Or did he send, in midnight's awful silence. 

The jailer, with a bludgeon in his hand. 
To drive from out the weakened, fettered body 

The chainless soul into the spirit land ? 
Or came he as a subtile, deadly poison. 

Hid in the draught craved by the fever pain, 
To bid the thirst rage like consuming fire, 

That your scorched lips might n*ever drink again ? 

In many guises, shapes the most appalling, 
The messenger of death was sent to you, 



Io8 DEAD IN HIS CELL. 

Whose only crime was love of land and freedom ^ 
" Gold for the false, and torture for the true," 

Is Britain's maxim ; and, oh, woe for Erin ! 
That fiendish motto she has learned too well ; 

Her teachers are the scaffold and the dungeon, 
The convict's grave, the raving maniac's cell. 

By drug or lash to death or madness goaded, 

In vain you gasped or shrieked with struggling 
breath. 
No sound could penetrate the walls around you, 

Your voices died amid the halls of death ; 
Shut from the world of light and life above you. 

Your tyrants knew no ear could hear your sighs ; 
They seemed to think the eye of God, all-seeing. 

Could never reach them from the distant skies. 

Devoted off'rings on our country's altar, 

Not all unheeded rose your dying groans ; 
They pierced the dense, death-laden air around you, 

And soared up to the Leveler of Thrones — 
Up to the God of Justice, great and mighty, 

Who ne'er made man to bow before that thing 
Of tinsel and corruption, that destroyer 

Of liberty and peace that's called a king. 

O basely murdered sons of hapless Erin, 

You answered not in vain your country's call, 

If those who live are true as those who perished, 
For soon the shackles from her limbs shall fall. 



WINTER NIGHTS. 109 

God give you rest, eternal rest in heaven, 
Dear buried brothers of our patriot band ; 

God give the Hving might to hurl forever 
The curse of Britain from our Irish land. 



WINTER NIGHTS. 



The wintry blast is rushing by with melancholy wail, 
As if the shrieks of wand'ring souls were mingling with 

the gale; 
The night without is dark and drear, a desert bleak and 

lone, 
As cheerless as the home from which a mother's love 

has flown; 
Within, though friendship, light and song throw sunshine 

o'er the gloom, 
At memory's call our hearts return to winter nights at 

home. 

For, oh ! those blessed winter nights grow fair as seasons 

go, 
Along the Past's dim galleries their pictured glories glow; 

In mellowed tints, whose shades are bright the Master 

Painter's skill 

Has bound them there, to lighten up the gloom of every 

ill. 



no WINTER NIGHTS. 

Like Israel's cloud or pillared flame, they guide us as we 

roam — 
Those hallowed mera'ries that surround the winter nights 

at home. 

In long-departed winter nights around the cheerful 

hearth 
Loved faces smiled in joyousness, loved tones rang out 

in mirth ; 
Unbroken was the household band that evening gathered 

there — 
No place was vacant at the board, no voice was missed 

at prayer; 
All trifling cares were cast away as waves fling off the 

foam. 
With trust in God no doubts could dim the winter nights 

at home. 

Dear winter nights of vanished times, ye tell of gladness 
gone, 

And whisper of the treasured friends who with your- 
selves have flown ; 

Light lies on some the daisied sod, on some the drifted 
snow, 

While past our feet the solemn years like silent rivers 
flow; 

We stand upon the misty shore, and dream of days to 
come, 

As full of calm, unclouded peace as winter nights at 
home. 



VIA CRUCIS. Ill 



VIA CRUCIS. 

O Jerusalem ! thou city of the prophet-saints of old, 
How thy sight by sin is clouded, and thy heart is hard 

and cold ; 
O'er thee frown the heavens in anger, startled Nature 

holds her breath, 
As thou lead'st the Lord of glory out to torture and to 

death. 

Hark ! what hideous yells of triumph through the streets 

are ringing loud; 
See the bound and bleeding Captive hurried onward by 

the crowd; 
Grave and noble is his aspect, calm and mild his patient 

eye; 
Of what crime can He be guilty that they drag Him forth 

to die ? 

Where He steps the stony pavement blushes crimson 
with his blood; 

Faint and weak He staggers onward, bowed beneath the 
heavy wood; 

See! His tottering footsteps falter; ah! He falls, too 
weak to rise. 

While around Him like a tempest sweep the rabble's venge- 
ful cries. 



112 VIA CRUCIS. 

Vile hands force Him up, and closer press the thorns 
upon his head, 

Though He healed their sick and dying, and to life re- 
stored their dead. 

Bruised and gasping, almost blinded by his blood, they 
drag Him still 

'Neath Jerusalem's proud arches, up the steep and rugged 
hill. 

Blessed Savior, though around Thee there were few who 

dared to mourn, 
Few who dared thy steps to follow 'mid the storm of 

wrath and scorn, 
Walking in thy painful pathway, sharing all thy pangs, 

was one — 
Mary — pierced with crushing sorrow for her loved and 

only Son. 

O most dolorous of mothers ! may we feel thy bitter 

woe. 
May our sinful hearts no longer cause our Savior's blood 

to flow ; 
Pray that we, like thee, may ever love and serve thy holy 

Son, 
And behold Him in his glory when our pilgrimage is 

done. 

Dearest Lord, whene'er our footsteps from the path of 
right would stray, 



MA MERE. 1 13 

Shrinking from the painful trials that beset our stormy- 
way, 

May the mem'ry of thy sufferings on the road to Calv'ry's 
hill 

Guard our hearts against temptation, give us strength to 
do thy will. 

Teach us. Lord, that earthly pleasures are at best but 

gilded dross, 
That the only way to heaven is the pathway of the cross; 
Holy, sanctified forever be the ground that Thou hast 

trod, 
Hallowed by thy crimsoned footprints, our Redeemer 

and our God. 



MA MERE. 



[A little tribute to the memory of Sister Stanislaus, for more than 
twenty years the beloved directress of the Ursuline Academy, Saint 
Martin's, Ohio, and familiarly known as '* Ma M6re."] 

Sad, sad thy halls, Saint Martin's, oh, dreary, sad and 

lone; 

The very softest footfall sends forth the echo, " flown ! " 

The silent nuns are weeping, a bowed and stricken band, 

For mother, friend and sister called to the spirit-land ; 

All, all is deepest mourning, for sorrow m.ust have way, 

" Ma M6re" is gone forever — gone to the land of day. 
8 



114 MA MERE 

The crushed and aged mother beholds, through heart- 

» 
wrung tears, 

The tried and faithful daughter of many toilsome years; 

In which, through cloud and sunshine, they walked life's 

pathway o'er 

With hand in hand united in serving God. No more 

They'll mingle thoughts of duty, together toil and pray, 

For one is gone forever — gone to the land of day. 

How many hearts are aching beneath their load of pain! 
But sobs are empty echoes, and tears unfruitful rain. 
Our woe can naught avail thee, O dearest friend and 

best! 
To us is loss and anguish, to thee is gain and rest. 
Alas ! thou'rt gone forever, borne from our love away, 
From oift a world of shadows to one of endless day. 

Gone, O " Ma Mere," forever! for us thy care is o'er; 
Some might have prized thee better, but who could love 

thee more ? ' 

We'll miss thy voice of counsel, thy ever busy hand. 
Thy guiding mind, unbiased and free and broad and 

grand; 
'Tis hard, how hard to lay thee beneath the darksome 

clay ; 
But thou art gone forever — gone to the land of day. 

Bright be thy place in glory, " Ma Mfere " ! thy dwelling 

here 
Has made our world far better — forgive the useless tear. 



TO FATPIER BURKE. 115 

We trust the dear Lord Jesus, the King with thorn- 
pierced brow, 

And Mary, Queen of Angels, are smiling on thee now. 

Our friend revered, lamented, farewell, farewell ! We'll 
pray 

At home with God to meet thee in lands of endless day. 



TO FATHER BURKK. 

THE ELOQUENT DOMINICAN. 

A hundred thousand welcomes ! aye, we give them with 

a will, 
In honor of the Irish priest, whose ringing tones can 

thrill 
The faithful, earnest Celtic heart, e'en to its inmost 

chords. 
As if the soul of Ireland were breathing in the words. 

We need a mighty prophet-voice, with inspiration strong, 
To cheer the hearts so often crushed by treachery and 

wrong ; 
To rouse the sleeping memories of those who can forget, 
And tell us that our race shall be — nay, is — a nation yet. 

God gave to thee that mighty voice, with power to un- 
roll 
To thousands of expectant eyes the broad historic scroll, 



Ii6 TO FATHER BURKE. 

Displaying there our Island's past, her triumphs and her 

tears, 
The glory of her splendid morn, the gloom of later years. 

There gleam the fields where Erin won unperishing re- 
nown. 

Where for the right the Saxon's might before the Celt 
went down ; 

And what a rushing, surging flood of wild, exultant joy 

Sweeps o'er us as we hear again the charge at Fontenoy. 

A hundred thousand welcomes ! aye, and blessings, too, 

galore^ 
For bringing us proud thoughts and high of Erin's storied 

shore; 
For though we're part of this young world, so strong and 

free to-day, 
We'll ne'er forget the dear old Isle in fetters far away. 

Devoted, earnest priest of God, a lofty lot is thine, 
To use in humble trust and faith a gift almost divine. 
What higher aim can mortal know, what destiny more 

grand, 
Than that of drawing souls to God and hearts to native 

land ? 



LOUGH NEAGH. 117 



LOUGH NEAGH. 

Fair lake, I've stood upon thy shore in Erin's glorious 

spring, 
When o'er thy azure bosom swept the sea-gull's snowy 

wing, 
While backward far the mountains leaned, and seemed 

in scorn to frown 
Upon a race that bowed beneath the shadow of a crown. 

Thy placid bosom showed no sign of ages long gone by, 
It mirrored but the varied hues of Erin's changeful sky ; 
It told no tale of peopled vales long buried 'neath the 

waves, 
Nor seemed to know it laved a shore that felt the tread 

of slaves. 



No sunken towers to greet my sight thy glassy mirror 

gave, 
Save where Shane's Castle stood alone, reflected in the 

wave; 
Its towers, like hoary sages, raised their heads, with ruin 

gray, 
To tell us of a grand old race forever passed away. 



Ii8 LOUGH NEAGH. 

A brave old valiant race that long the Saxon power 
withstood, 

To keep proud Freedom's ark afloat they gladly gave 
their blood; 

Now o'er their hallowed dust is heard the despot's clank- 
ing chain, 

Their moss-grown tombs, their ruined halls are all that 
now remain. 

But deep in Erin's heart of hearts their memory aye shall 

Hve, 
Kept fragrant by the purest tears a nation's love can 

give, 
And on her history's brightest page their deeds, their 

high renown, 
Shall shine — our country's northern lights, when tower 

and hall go down. 

The waters broke in heavy sobs against the castle wall, 
Like spirits of the olden time come back to weep its fall; 
But sobs are Erin's household words, since tyrants trod 

her strand 
They've caused a flood of tears and blood to deluge all 

the land. 

Fair lake, while gazing on thy breast and on my country's 

woe, 
I've almost wished that far above the mountains thou 

could'st flow; 



RUINS. 119 

Far better Lethe's wave o'er her and all her woes should 

roll, 
Did not the blessed light of hope shine on her tortured 

soul! 

The iron hand that long has held our nation in the dust, 
So often met with martyr's blood, at last must turn to 

rust ; 
One vigorous blow its strength must crush, once crushed, 

'twill rise no more 
To blight the bloom on Erin's cheek, or curse Lough 

Neagh's green shore. 



RUINS. 

Rising from the earth's green bosom, 

Scattered over every land. 
Proud mementos of the glory 

Of departed ages stand — 
Wrecks of mighty feudal castles 

That defied the battle's rage, 
Bow to-day like stern old warriors 

Battle-scarred and crushed with age. 

Mouldering lie the splendid temples 
Round whose shrines in ancient days 

Priest and warrior, king and peasant 
Bent the knee in prayer and praise; 



£20 RUINS. 

Sanctified by saintly worship 

They should stand though others fall, 

But the hand of the destroyer, 
Time, is sweeping over all. 

Sad it is to gaze upon them — 

Palace, cloister, shrine and dome — 
And to think that all earth's glories 

Must at last to ruin come ; 
That with wrecks the passing ages 

All the universe must fill, 
But each day we see around us 

Ruins grander, sadder still. 

Fallen columns, crumbling arches 

In the temple of the soul, 
That should stand in primal beauty 

While unnumbered ages roll — 
Glorious souls, for bliss created, 

Turning from their upward way. 
From a Father's love and mercy. 

Bowing down to gods of clay. 

Lofty minds, whose soaring pinions 

Ne'er should stoop to touch the mould, 
Bending from the gates of glory. 

Worship gods of dust or gold. 
Mournful as it is to witness 

Shrine and palace crumbling low. 
Wrecks of God's fair human temples 

Are the saddest earth can show. 



SAINT PATRICK'S DAY. 121 



SAINT PATRICK'S DAY 

Again returns the welcome day, so dear to Erin's heart — 
A day that wakens lofty thoughts, bids holy mem'ries 

start ; 
As smiles our country through her tears, we, too, though 

far away, 
Will join our hearts and hopes with hers upon Saint 

Patrick's Day. 



Gur land — alas! no nation now — we can not call our 

own; 
Of all the glories of the past her faith remains alone ; 
But strong in that with earnest hearts to Freedom's God 

we'll pray 
To heal her wounds and right her wrongs upon Saint 

Patrick's Day. 

Oh, may our homeless, exiled race, though drifted far 

apart, 
To-day united, only know one aim, one soul, one heart; 
One earnest wish to rise in might and rend the chains 

away 



122 SAINT PATRICK'S DAY 

That bind our country's free-bom limbs this bright Saint 
Patrick's Day. 

The grand old days when Patrick dwelt upon our native 

soil, 
The days when Irish homes enjoyed the fruits of Irish 

toil, 
The relics of a glorious past, sublime amid decay, 
Show what we were and yet may be upon Saint Patrick's 

Day. 

Then, exiles, hail this day with pride, and keep one aim 

in view ; 
The by-gone times can ne'er be changed, the future rests 

with you ; 
Unless the patriot fire be fed 'twill smoulder all away, 
And leave us sunk in grief and gloom upon Saint Patrick's 

Day. 

Prove to the world 'tis falsely said you never can unite ; 
Drown not the shamrock, drown your feuds, and join for 

Ireland's right; 
Together naught can crush you down, and soon no 

tyrant's sway 
Shall blight our land or blast her homes upon Saint 

Patrick's Day. 



EVA. 123 



EVA. 

[Dermod MacMurrough, Ireland's traitor-king, compelled his 
only daughter, Eva, to wed the adventurer, Strongbow, on the 
battle-field.] 

The angel of the sunset smiled 

While passing over Wexford bay, 
And 'neath the glory of her gaze 

The waves in golden ripples lay. 
She blushed, the waters mirrored back 

The crimson caught from cheek so fair — 
Alas ! those tranquil waves ere morn 

To Wexford's homes brought dark despair; 
And many eyes that flashed with joy 

To see that evening's brilliant close. 
With glassy stare were fixed in death 

Before another day arose, 

At midnight Leinster's traitor king 

Amid his foreign hireling band 
Came forth to slay, and drenched in blood 

The bosom of his native land. 
And 'mid the awful carnage there, 

'Mid gloom and horror, death and grief, 



124 EVA. 

He called his youthful daughter forth 

To wed the plundering Norman chief. 
The maiden's cheek grew deadly pale, 

Her father's blood-stained hand she clasped, 
Then shuddering dropped its sickening hold, 

And quick in trembling accents gasped : 
" My father! oh, what mean those words? 

My heart is faint, my brain grows wild — 
Through midnight scenes of woe and death 

Say whither would you take your child ?'* 

" Haste, Eva," Dermod stern replied, 
" For Strongbow waits his bride to-night, 
And Wexford's burning roofs shall be 

Thy bridal torches flaming bright. 
Our steeds await " " In mercy stay I 

I wed this murderer of my race ! 
Oh, surely you, with all your crimes, 

Can never urge a deed so base ! 
I pray you by my mother's grave, 

By all your hopes of future life. 
Turn not a daughter's love to hate, 

No longer curse our land with strife. 
Dismiss these lawless robbers now; 

Our noble monarch even yet 
Will pardon all ; our people too 

In years of peace will this forget." 

" No boon from Roderick do I crave; 
If he is king, so still am I ; 



EVA. 125 

Though child and kingdom both are sold 

That I may Erin's power defy; 
Thou art the price of Strongbow's aid." 
" I bartered to my country's foes ! 
Oh, rather let thy guilty sword 

At once my life and sorrows close. 
*Tis many years since thou hast claimed 

The honor due a parent ; still 
I ever loved thee, ever prayed 

That God might turn thy steps from ill ; 
And now I beg thee, I implore, 

At once thy child, thy country save, 
Lest future generations rise 

To curse thy ashes in the grave. 
My life will quickly pass away, 

But oh, our land! how long, how long 
Must she be doomed to groan and weep 

In tears of blood thy deeds of wrong !" 

" Thy grief, thy prayers are useless all. 

No power can change my purpose now ; 
I'd rather be the stranger's slave 

Than e'er to Tara's monarch bow ; 
And sooner would I see thee wed 

The meanest follower of mine, 
Than joined to noble of this land. 

Of Ir or Heber's princely line. 
A war of hatred strong and deep, 

A war of vengeance dread and dire 



126 EVA. 

Against them have I sworn, and long 
They'll feel the force of Dermod's ire. 

No more — I will not hear a word — 
God, honor, country are forgot; 

And save to aid me in my plans, 

Thou, even thou, to me art naught ! " 



One piercing wail, and Eva then 

As if her heart had turned to stone 
And life's warm tide with horror froze, 

Dropped to the earth without a moan. 
An hour later, 'mid the glare 

Of torches blazing darkly red, 
'Mid agonizing shrieks and groans, 

Where lay the wounded and the dead, 
The heartless, perjured king bestowed 

His hapless daughter's icy hand 
On him whom thirst of gold had brought 

With strife and woe to curse the land. 



But ancient chroniclers relate 

That when the pale death-angel came, 
And in the midnight's solemn gloom 

With breathless lip spoke Dermod's name 
Before his tortured vision rose 

Accusing angels cold and white. 
Whose pallid faces gleamed like stars 

Amid the darkness of the night ; 



BENEATH THE CLOVER. 127 

They pointed with their spectral hands 

To ruined homes and trampled graves, 
To generations that through him 

Should toil and groan, the stranger's slaves. 
His iron heart repented not, 

And Mercy weeping bowed her head, 
And veiled her face with drooping wing 

To hide from view that scene of dread. 
No loving hands his pillow smoothed. 

No voices breathed his name in prayer; 
But loathed, detested and alone 

He died in darkness and despair. 



BENEATH THE CLOVER. 

Wail, moaning wind, a solemn dirge. 

Weep, weep, O sobbing rain! 
Ye clouds, put on your darkest robes, 

And mourn o'er human pain. 
A life round which high hopes were twined 

On earth, alas ! is over — 
A strong, true heart is laid to rest 

Beneath the purple clover — 
Beneath the tufted grasses green, 

Beneath the purple clover. 

Wail, wind, yet wherefore shouldst thou wail ? 
Our dead was nought to thee ; 



128 BENEATH THE CLOVER. 

Why shouldst thou drop o'er him, O sky, 

Thy gushing tears so free ? 
*Tis we must shed the heart-wrung rain, 

Our sad eyes brimming over, 
Above the head that Ues so low 

Beneath the purple clover — 
The once proud head, now lowly laid 

Beneath the purple clover. 

Is this then all of thee, young life, 

Whose promise was so grand ? — 
Of thee, pure heart, that ever throbbed 

So true to native land ? 
The mind to dare, the hand to do. 

Now rest, their labors over — 
Alas ! that aught so loved should lie 

So early 'neath the clover; 
Oh, blissful, happy be thy sleep 

Beneath the purple clover. 

Aye, this is all, this grassy mound, 

That's left of thee on earth; 
But ever shall thy spirit live 

Where glorious deeds have birth. 
May lofty lessons here be learned, 

May storms pass lightly over. 
And friendship's tears keep fresh for years 

The sweetly-scented clover; 
May ruder winds than angel wings 

Ne'er move this purple clover. 



SAINT MARTIN'S. 129 



SAINT MARTIN'S. 

[the URSULINE academy, brown county, OHIO.] 

Sweet, happy spot, where holy peace forever, 

A pure, bright spirit, sits with folded wings. 
Where Virtue's radiant, ever- blooming flowers 

Are watered by Religion's crystal springs. 
Thou seemest in thy tranquil, placid beauty 

From earth's wild strifes and sins and sorrows free ; 
Thou sittest throned amid thy broad green woodlands, 

A sunny island in an emerald sea. 

Apart from all the gay world's gilded pleasures, 

Brave patient spirits in thy walls abide. 
In toil and prayer and self-denial treading 

The hidden pathway of the Crucified ; 
And many young hearts nurtured by their kindness 

Will think of them and thee when distant far. 
And look back to thy altar lamp's pale shining. 

As once the shepherds looked to Bethlehem's star. 

Some of the brightest days that I can number 

Within thy groves like sunny streams went by, 
And to my heart thou shalt be linked forever 

By memories that can not fade or die ; 
God's blessing rest on thine and thee forever, 

Fair dweUing-place of purity and truth ; 
As now mayst thou remain through coming ages — 

The home of virtue and the guide of youth. 
9 



130 WHAT WOULD MY MOTHER SAY? 



WHAT WOULD MY MOTHER SAY? 

When youth trips o'er life's flowery way, 

With lightly-bounding feet, 
Rejoicing in its thoughtless glee 

That Time has wings so fleet. 
If luring, siren voices try 

To lead its steps astray. 
How swiftly flashes through the mind : 

What would my mother say ? 

How often, too, in after years. 

When childhood's joys are o'er, 
And all our dearest mem'ries cling 

Round days that are no more. 
The soul assailed by snares and strifes 

Would waver and give way 
To wrong, but for that old home-thought : 

What would my mother say ? 

What would she say, whose teachings breathed 

Of all things pure and high, 
To know her holy influence 

Could ever wane or die ? 
Whene'er the tried and tempted heart 

Grows weak 'neath evil sway. 
May some good angel wake the thought: 

What would my mother say ? 



GETHSEMANE. 131 



GETHSEMANE. 

Night above Judea's moantains folds her mantle like a 
pall, 

While the shadows of her flowing robe o'er hill and val- 
ley fall ; 

Sad Gethsemane, above thee seems a darker shadow 
thrown, 

Where the Savior kneeleth lowly in his agony alone. 

Blessed Lord, what bitter anguish in that dreadful hour 

was thine, 
When the powers of earth and heaven seemed against 

Thee to combine. 
When the angel, bending o'er Thee, held the flaming 

chalice down, 
And revealed the fearful torture of the cross and thorny 

crown. 

O Gethsemane ! mute witness of the agony of God, 
Consecrated by his sorrow, ever holy be thy sod; 
Mercy in his heart with Justice striving, there the vict'ry 

won, 
As He cried : " O Heavenly Father, not my will but 

thine be done' " 



132 ORIGIN OF THE WHITE ROSE. 

While on earth we're doomed to wander, every soul 

must surely know 
Some dread hour of desolation, some Gethsemane of 

woe — 
Moments when the fainting spirit in its weariness will 

groan, 
Weakly shrinking from the trials that it fears to meet 

alone. 

From thy ways we stray too often, agonizing Son of 

God, 
We would walk to heaven on roses, while on thorns thy 

feet have trod ; 
Teach our hearts that it is only by the Cross the Crown 

is won. 
In the hours of deepest sorrow let us say, " Thy will be 

done." 



ORIGIN OF THE WHITE ROSE. 

When morning first, with wings of flaming gold, 

Swept off the thick, chaotic gloom that rolled 

In heavy billows over Eden's skies, 

Wnen first the flowers unclosed their dewy eyes, 

No pale-cheeked roses blossomed there, 'tis said, 

For then and ages after all were red. 

But when a darkness deeper than the gloom 

Of earth's deep, rayless, primal night had come 



ME MORA RE. 133 

Upon the human mind, when man unawed 
Upraised his hand to slay the Son of God, 
On sad Golgotha's steep that awful day 
A crimson rosebush grew in Mary's way, 
And as she passed with bloodless face, the sight 
Of her great sorrow paled its leaves to white. 
Since then, though still the crimson roses blow, 
Their sisters with pale leaves of scented snow, 
Close nestled m their silken folds disclose 
The gleaming golden heart of the white rose. 



MEMORARE. 

[the prayer of saint BERNARD.] 

O remember, dearest mother, it was never, never known 
That a soul who sought thy succor pined unfriended 

and alone ; 
For the track cleaved through the ether by the mighty 

power — prayer, 
Is a channel that must earthward sweetest consolations 

bear. 

Earth has not a child so lowly that thou wilt not, mother 

dear, 
Stoop to list his piteous story, and to comfort, calm and 

cheer ; 



134 MEMORARE. 

Nor a sinner so degraded by the wrongs that he has 

done 
That thou wilt not crave his pardon from the mercy of 

thy Son. 

In the hour of darkest trials, when temptations round us 

throng, 
If we call thee, " Help of Christians," thou wilt aid us to 

be strong; 
For we know thy word is potent with the Lord of power 

divine, 
Who at thy request in Cana changed the water into wine. 

" Sinners' Refuge," crushed and broken, at thy feet we 
humbly kneel. 

To the God of might and justice scarcely daring to ap- 
peal ; 

Thou with mother's heart all human in its sorrow, pity, 
love. 

Wilt present our poor petitions at our Father's throne 
above. 

Well we know our blest Redeemer, whose sweet infancy 

was given 
To thy care and adoration, owns thee mother now in 

heaven; 
That to thee who shared his perils, soothed in love his 

faintest cry, 
There is not a gift or favor that his bounty can deny. 



TO MRS. SADLIER. 135 

So with earnest faith, dear mother, at thy spotless shrine 

we pray- 
When afflictions round us gather, that their gloom may 

pass away; 
Or that anguish, pain and trial to our stumbling feet 

may be 
Only stern, sure guides to lead us to our Saviour and to 

thee. 



TO MRS. SADLIER. 

[on reading her splendid historical tale, " THE 
CONFEDERATE CHIEFTAINS."] 

Oh, thou whose genius-gifted pen 

Is like a potent magic wand. 
Whose touch awakes to life and strength 

The buried heroes of our land ; 
My heart goes out in love to thee, 

While poring o'er the storied page 
Where grandly live and sternly strive 

The chieftains of a vanished age. 

Our great and noble dead, whose dust 
Has lain for vears in honored graves, 

Thou bringest back to tell their sons 

How much they loathed the name of slaves. 



136 TO MRS. SADLIER. 

Their soaring eagle-spirits scorned 

To stoop from Freedom's towering height, 

And reared a wall of dauntless hearts 
Against oppression's banded might. 

Their grandly mournful story thrills 

Our hearts with mingled grief and pride; 
And who shall dare, because they failed, 

To say in vain they lived and died ? 
None, for the land that gave them birth, 

That holds their ashes on her breast, 
Remembering their lofty deeds, 

In chains can never, never rest. 

'Tis given to thy hand to ope 

The inmost chambers of the heart, 
To bid it bound with joy or mirth, 

Cause sorrow's silent founts to start. 
How cold must be the breast in which 

Thy words awake no genial glow. 
And hard the eye that does not weep 

The nation's idol — Owen Roe ! 

From out the radiance thou hast flung 

Around the struggles of the past, 
The present grasps a ray of hope 

Along the future's way to cast ; 
May God forever shield and bless 

The high, true heart and gifted hand 
That twine such deathless wreaths to lay 

Upon the shrine of Fatherland. 



WELCOME TO THE WEST. 137 



WELCOME TO THE WEST. 

[Now that the I. C. B. U. is giving its attention to Irish coloniza- 
tion, we may hope that something will be done to benefit the' ' friend- 
Jess emigrant." The earnest wish of every patriotic heart must be 
to see the masses of the Irish people removed from the degrading 
influences of crowded cities. The sturdy laborer who is (except on 
election days) only a camel in the deserts of great cities, will rise to 
the dignity of a freeman when he stands on his own soil. ] 

From the storied island that our hearts adore, 
Tearful groups are turning, turning evermore ; 
Rushing out to freedom from the rule of wrong — 
List! the land they've chosen greets them with a song: 

From the crowded cities' din and strife and toil, 
Come to spreading woodlands with their teeming soil; 
Come to boundless prairies free as ocean's foam ; 
All the streams are singing, " Welcome, welcome home!" 

Come, no homes await you in the noisy marts, 
They are dreary deserts to your pilgrim hearts ; 
Come where far beyond them smiling fields appear ; 
Years of calm enjoyment pay for labor here. 

Here are broader valleys than you left behind, 
Freedom's air to strengthen muscle, heart and mind. 
Fell the towering forests, turn the yielding sod, 
Reap the golden harvests, bow to none but God. 



138 TO AN IVY LEAF. 

Where the shining rivers fertiUze the soil, 
Dream you see your Shannon, Liffey, Suir and Foyle ; 
Here, where tyrant's banner never was unfurled, 
Raise a great new Erin in the western world. 

Walk the earth as monarchs, work with hopeful hand. 
Thinking of your cherished, unforgotten land. 
Hoping, praying, toiling earnestly that she 
Soon may rise a nation peaceful, happy, free. 



TO AN IVY LEAF. 
[brought from the ruin of Shane's castle.] 

O treasured leaf! though faded now thy green and 

glossy hue, 
Thou bringest up a distant land once more before my 

view; 
Thou bearest me in spirit back across the ocean's foam. 
To see again with fond delight the dear old scenes of 

home. 

The morning that I bore thee from thy turret quaint and 

gray. 
Like pearls upon thy satin cheek the glitt'ring dew drops 

lay; 
For ages round a ruined pile thy parent vine had clung, 
And many summers 'mongst its leaves the birds their 

matins sung. 



TO AN IVY LEAF. 139 

That stately ruin grand and old, I seem to see it now,' 
The long grass waving o'er the seams that mark its 

hoary brow. 
While through the thin and scattered tufts morn's rosy 

sunbeams play. 
Like childish fingers wand'ring 'mong a grandsire's locks 

of gray. 

Aij)und its ancient walls I hear the billows sob and 
moan — 

A solemn requiem they sing for power and glory gone — 

And see the ivy's circling arms its crumbling towers en- 
twine. 

As if to veil the mournfulness of grandeur in decline. 

Dear faded leaf, I prize thee yet, though beautiful no 
more; 

Thy kindred tendrils freshly wave upon my native shore; 

They wrap in Nature's drapery her fallen shrines and 
fanes, 

As if they loved each stately wreck of splendor that re- 
mains. 

Though snows have wreathed the mountain's brow and 

summer breezes fanned, 
Since thou hast met the morning's smile that lights my 

distant land, 
Thou bringest thoughts of scenes and days I never can 

forget ; 
For this, O pallid ivy leaf! I dearly love thee yet. 



I40 DRIFTING DOWN THE RIVER. 



DRIFTING DOWN THE RIVER. 

Drifting down the shining river, 
Where the sunbeams glance and quiver 
On the rippling waves so swiftly 
Dancing onward to the sea ; 
As they glide in ceaseless motion 
To the broad unfathomed ocean, 
What a lesson, in their journey, 
Do they whisper unto me ! 

Down a broader, deeper river — 
One whose wavelets we can never 
Sail but once — for never backward 
O'er its surface may we go — 
Do we float, perhaps unshrinking. 
Often heedless and unthinking, 
Where the boundless, endless ocean 
Of Eternity doth flow. 

With our hopeful eyes turned sunward 
We are looking onward, onward 
For a glimpse of that bright Eden 
Lost while yet the world was young ; 
For we fancy that it glimmers 
W^here the shining water shimmers 



DRIFTING DOWN THE RIVER. 141 

Like a gate of pearl before us 
By the hand of distance hung. 

'Mong its far off purple shadows 
Do we picture flowery meadows — 
Bright elysian fields of beauty, 
Where we hope to pause and rest ; 
But how oft we find them cheating, 
Empty visions, false and fleeting 
As the magic cities rising 
From the water's misty breast. 

When at last our haven nearing, 
All its beauty disappearing. 
We but find a barren desert 
On the sea's rough, stormy verge ; 
All its fruits to ashes turning, 
All its valleys bare and burning, 
And the white wings of its angels 
But the foam-wreaths on the surge. 

Naught is real, naught is lasting 

Save that world to which we're hasting 

Over Time's swift flowing river; 

And for rest we seek in vain 

Till we reach the golden j^ortal 

Never crossed by foot of mortal. 

And our life bark's wrecked and shattered 

Ne'er to breast the waves again. 



142 SISTER AGATHA. 



SISTER AGATHA. 

Within a splendid home is missed a frank and joyous 

smile, 
A fair young face undimmed by care, a heart untouched 

by guile, 
And thoughtful, earnest eyes that seemed to pierce the 

future far, 
As through the night's blue depths looks down the clear 

eye of a star. 

To that young heart sweet Mercy spoke from heaven's 

portals high, 
And in their weariness she heard earth's sufPring children 

cry; 
Then bidding friends and home adieu, she cast life's 

pleasures down, 
To follow the anointed One who wore the thorny crown. 

Far from the loving hearts at home, her treasured house- 
hold band, 

In patient cheerfulness she toiled with brave, untiring 
hand; 

And many straying souls looked up to her in hope and 
love. 

And by her saintly life were led to think of God above. 



SISTER AGATHA. 143 

The friendless suff' rer, tossing wild upon the couch of 

pain, 
With aching Hmbs and throbbing heart and fever-heated 

brain, 
Oft Hstened for her soothing voice, and grateful glances 

cast 
Upon her sympathetic face and blessed her as she passed. 

She fell beneath the fearful scourge whose pestilential 

breath 
Sweeps o'er the sunny Southern land upon the wings of 

death ; 
Where friends from friends in terror fled, her fearless step 

had come. 
And 'mid the dying and the dead the angels called her 

home. 

Her hands are folded from their works of mercy and of 

love. 
One saint the less is here below, one angel more above ; 
And many tears bedew the clay that folds in slumber 

calm 
The fair young Sister far from home, beneath the 

southern palm. 



144 SONG FOR TO-DAY. 



SONG FOR TO-DAY. 

This life's too brief to waste its light 

In dreams of some ideal; 
The future is a phantom bright, 

The present stern and real. 
Behold the nations marching on, 

No kingly power can bind them ; 
Oh, shall we dream till they have gone, 

And we are left behind them ? 

Alas ! our hapless Irish land. 

In vain we say we love her — 
Her streams and plains, her ruins grand, 

The radiant blue above her, 
While with our causeless hate and war 

We but more firmly bind her 
Beneath the tyrant's crushing car. 

And banish hope behind her. 

Oh, shame on him who breathes a word 

'Gainst one who loves our sireland ! 
His tongue is as a dagger keen 

That stabs the heart of Ireland. 
Too long we quaffed the poisoned draught 

Our rulers mixed to blind us ; 
They laughed to see how madly we 

Flung brotherhood behind us. 



THE CAPTIVE. 145 

Regard not all as foes whose words 

Are not your echo, brother, 
Two human minds are seldom found 

Precisely like each other ; 
Your creed or shrine may not be mine, 

Yet love of land should bind us 
In freedom's holy cause to join, 

And cast distrust behind us. 

We'll hate but wrong, and most of all 

Hate tyranny's aggression. 
And rise, a mighty human wall, 

To face and crush oppression; 
To hurl the foe from off our shore 

Who to the dust would grind us ; 
To live in friendship evermore 

With faction far behind us. 



THE CAPTIVE. 



[Edward O'Meara Condon, who was arrested and tried with the 
** Manchester Martyrs," is still a captive in a Bi-itish prison.] 

'Tis night, the dull day's drudgery is done, 

And in his cell the captive sits alone — 

The grated vault his jealous keepers give 

Him barely space to breathe in, not to live. 

All's dark, all silent, neither sight nor sound 

Breaks through the gloom, the solitude profound, 
10 



1^6 THE CAPTIVE. 

Save where, " drip, drip," slow from the tomb-like walls 

In heavy tears the gathered dampness falls, 

As if more soft than rulers' hearts, each stone 

Wept o'er the woes of him compelled alone 

In dreary desolation, ray less night. 

To pass the days Jehovah made so bright. 

Resplendent sunset, calm and blessed eve, 

That come the weary spirit to relieve, 

You can not gather friends around the hearth, 

To cheer the hearts that languish 'neath the earth. 

The dungeon-fettered bears his doom alone, 

And sighs to those who can not hear his moan : 

" O friends, my friends, away beyond the sea, 

Whose days are dark with sorrowing for me. 

In spite of rocky wall and iron door, 

My heart, my thoughts are with you evermore. 

My child, my child, my careless, happy boy. 

Why must my darkness cloud your days of joy ? 

And oh, my faithful wife, whose youthful head 

Is bowed to weep the buried, not the dead, 

Alas ! how dreary have I made your life — 

A lonely widow, yet a captive's wife. 

My mother's cheek is channelled with the tears 

Shed for her prisoned son ; my father's years 

Are dark with grief, with hopes that failed, and I, 

The cause of all, can neither live nor die ! 

Oh, for the thunder's crash, the earthquake's shock, 

To rend these cursed doors, these walls of rock, 



THE CAPTIVE. 147 

And strike with awe the earthly powers that dare 
Deny God's creatures his free Hght and air — 
That pile the earth above the living head 
And yet forbid the slumber of the dead ! 

" Land of my deathless love, fair storied isle, 

When, when shall Freedom on thy valleys smile ? 

Thy day must come. Can despots dream they bind 

The soaring soul, the strong, unfettered mind ? 

These chains that keep my limbs from being free 

But link my heart more strongly yet to thee ; 

This loathsome cell that's never blessed with day. 

The silent witness of my life's decay. 

My spirit spurns, and eagle-like can soar 

Away, away to thee, my native shore. 

When thy oppressors in the clay shall rot, 

All, all except their cruelty forgot. 

Green as the laurel shall their memory be 

Who bore captivity or death for thee. 

Old trampled land. Through centuries of wrong 

Thy mighty soul unbowed has swept along 

Fierce torrents of oppression ; but thy night 

Of woe must end in Freedom's glorious light." 



14S THE NEW YEAR. 



THE NEW YEAR. 

The old year's gone, forever gone ; 

We welcome in the new, 
As bounding from the clouds he comes 

To bless our eager view. 
There's vigor in his buoyant step, 

And glory girds him round, 
Hope flashes from his glowing eyes 

And forehead starry crowned. 

O beautiful, O bright new year ! 

What tidings dost thou bring ? 
Are some to weep and some rejoice — 

Some sigh while others sing? 
Are aching hearts to be made glad. 

Or happy homes made drear ? 
What dost thou bring to us, to all, 

Thou powerful new year ? 

Thy hand is mighty, youthful year, 

Then use its might to bless ; 
Bring cheer to hearths long desolate. 

And comfort to distress ; 
Bring peace to nations writhing sore 

'Neath war's red, scourging rod ; 
Bring peace to minds that dream of hate, 

To souls that stray from God. 



IRELAND'S FREE. 149 

Give strength to every struggling land 

To break oppression down, 
And tread its emblems in the dust — 

The sceptre, throne and crown. 
Bid those long bowed to stand erect, 

Let wrong from power be hurled. 
And truth and right and justice rule 

The home, the state, the world. 

And oh, to her, our Cypress-Crowned, 

Who sits beside the main. 
And looks through tears for coming years 

To break her heavy chain — 
Our ancient Erin of the streams — 

Bring freedom to her shore, 
United hearts and hands to guard 

That freedom evermore. 



I R E L A N D'S FREE! 
[only a prophecy.] 

Ireland's free ! 

From the years that the future 
Holds in her bosom, just waking to life, 

Surgeth a sound like an archangel's trumpet, 
Heard through the turmoil of tempest and strife. 

Thrilling the depths of the earth and the sea, 

Ireland's free ! Ireland's free 1 



150 IRELAND'S FREE. 

Ireland's free ! 

Like a torrent of fire, 
Melting the fetters from millions of slaves, 

Startling the world like the crash of an earthquake, 
Warming the hearts of the dead in their graves, 

Cometh the echo of that which must be — 

Ireland's free ! Ireland's free ! 

Ireland's free ! 

Oh, to live but to hear it ! 
Then her long ages of sorrow would seem 

Only as clouds that had vanished forever. 
Or as the shadows that darken a dream — 

Dream full of glory, the shadows must flee ! 

Ireland's free ! Ireland's free ! 



Ireland's free ! 

Shall the present not hear it ? 
Answer, Old Land, art thou helpless and gray ? 

Or, wilt thou, phoenix-like, soar from thy ashes, 
Sweeping the remnant of reptiles away ? 

Thunder thy answer o'er mountain and sea : 

Ireland's free ! Ireland's free ! 



COLUMBIA S BIRTHDAY. 151 



COLUMBIA'S BIRTHDAY. 

(written for a fourth of JULY CELEBRATION SOME 

YEARS AGO.] 

List the deep-mouthed cannon's roaring, 
See our flag of beauty soaring 
Up to meet its hues reflected 

In the dome Jehovah raised 
O'er the earth, his temple holy, 
O'er the lofty and the lowly — 
Freedom's God, our only monarch. 

Be thy name forever praised ! 

Birthday of our land, to honor 
Thee, we raise her starry banner. 
While the eyes of millions proudly 

View it waving spotless, free. 
O'er a country great and glorious ; 
May it float for aye victorious, 
Girding with a zone of beauty 

All the west from sea to sea. 

Heroes of the days departed, 
True, unselfish, noble-hearted, 
From the patriot's Valhalla 

Watch the land your prowess won, 



152 COLUMBIA'S BIRTHDAY. 

By long years of conflict deadly, 
By fierce battles raging redly, 
From the grasp of crowned destroyers — 
Ne'er shall set your glory's sun. 

Deathless spirits, ever hover 

Round this nation — well you love her ; 

And should foes in force assail her, 

Rouse her sons to deeds as grand 
As your own, when danger scorning 
On her tempest-clouded morning. 
Bid them keep her as you left her — 

Hope of every trampled land. 

On this day, across the ocean 
Thousands look with glad emotion, 
In their hearts new courage growing ; 

And they stifle back their groans 
While they wait with fierce impatience 
For the rising of the nations, 
For the breaking of the sceptres 

And the crashing of the thrones. 

God of liberty, look downward. 
Guide the people marching onward; 
Spread the light which Thou hast lavished 

On this fair and favored shore. 
O'er a world 'neath despots groaning; 
End the wailing and the moaning ; 



MAGDALEN. 153 



In the place of kings let Freedom 
Reign supreme for evermore. 

May our banner float forever, 
And its stars be clouded never 
Till their prototypes in heaven 

In their skyey scroll are rolled ; 
Till Columbia's birthday blending 
With a daylight never-ending, 
Sees a new world leap to being 

From the ashes of the old ! 



MAGDALEN. 



Lo ! Israel's erring daughter humbly kneeling 
At Jesus' feet with heart repentant bowed, 

Her beauteous eyes upraised in mute appealing 
Amid the scandalized, self-righteous crowd. 

The haughty Pharisees look on in horror — 
A dreadful sacrilege it seems to them 

To see this noted child of sin and error 
Approach a prophet of Jerusalem. 

Unheeding scoffs and scowling brows around her, 
Her tears bedew the Savior's feet like rain ; 

Their crystal torrents burst the links that bound her 
A captive, held by sin's enthralling chain. 



154 GOD AND OUR LAND. 

The glossy waves of her once jewelled tresses 
To wipe his sacred feet, far down unroll; 

His calm, mild glance of sweet forgiveness blesses 
And sheds a balm upon her tortured soul. 

From hated sins that barred the way to heaven 
The Savior's lips have uttered her release ; 

Because she has much loved is much forgiven, 

She hears the blessed words, " Daughter, go in peace." 



GOD AND OUR LAND. 

God and our land ! be the watchwords of Erin 

When from the blackness of slavery's night 
Sunward she soareth, her green banner bearing 

Over the heroes who strive for her right ; 
Hurling the force of the black-hearted stranger 

Back, as the blue waves are hurled from her strand. 
Shame on the craven who, dreaming of danger, 

Shrinks from the standard of God and our land ! 

Bright as the sun on the page of her story 

Ever shall shine the proud names of the brave 
Spirits who struggle or die for her glory — 

Ages shall bless them when cold in the grave. 
Oh! when she calleth let none fail or falter, 

Shoulder to shoulder as true brothers stand, 
Striving for freedom, for home and for altar. 

Led by the watchword of God and our land ! 



WHERE THE SUNBEAMS PLAY. 15$ 

Only one moment to see her victorious 

Well would repay all the toil of a life; 
What is existence blank, hopeless, inglorious ? 

Better, far better to fall in the strife. 
Dream not of rest till your fetters are riven, 

Till as a nation our country shall stand ; 
On through your foemen to freedom or heaven, 

Led by the standard of God and our land ! 



WHERE THE SUNBEAMS PLAY. 

Old Time is flitting by like a bird upon the wing. 
But who would stop to sigh when 'tis better far to smg 
As gaily as the birds sing the happy summer day 
Amid the waving branches where the sunbeams play ? 

Oh, summer's full of sunshine and life is full of joy. 
Then why let future shadows our present light destroy ? 
The morning's breezy pinions shall brush the clouds 

away 
While roaming through the forest where the sunbeams 

play. 

Away with gloom and sorrow ! Is this a time for grief, 
When scent is on the blossom and life is in the leaf? 
Enjoy the present moments, be happy while you may. 
For life is like a forest where the sunbeams play. 



156 THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 

As through the dancing leaflets they scatter flakes of 

gold, 
They write for us the story so often vainly told : 
That all to-day so blooming, to-morrow may decay, 
While o'er its desolation shall the sunbeams play. 

Then while old Time goes by, like a bird upon the wing, 
Oh, who would stop to sigh when 'tis better far to sing ? 
Be happy as the birds are the happy summer day, 
For life is like a forest where the sunbeams play. 



THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 

By a forest of the Rhineland, 

Many hundred years ago, 
Dwelt a band of holy brothers 

In an abbey dark and low ; 
Hardened were their hands by labor, 

For from dawn till set of sun 
Busily they toiled, and scarcely 

Deemed with day their duty done. 

Rugged was the soil and sterile. 
Fern and thistle, heath and thorn 

Must by patience be uprooted 
Ere it bore the yellow corn ; 



THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 157 

Even that was often carried 

To the peasant's humble shed, 
While the acorns of the forest 

Served the silent monks for bread. 

In that quiet, busy household 

There was one beloved of all — 
Cheerful, patient, self-denying. 

Ever thoughtful Brother Paul ; 
Living for the good of others, 

All his thoughts to God were given, 
And the radiant world around him 

Only raised his thoughts to heaven. 

Gazing on the broad blue waters, 

Waving woods and flowery sod, 
Reading Nature's book of beauty. 

Written by the hand of God, 
Oft he prayed the great All-Father 

In his bounty to bestow 
One brief gleam of heaven's glory 

On his servant here below. 

Thus he prayed one quiet evening 

In the glowing summer time, 
Leaning on his spade to listen 

To the distant abbey chime: 
Seated on his blazing chariot. 

Slowly westward day had rolled. 
While his touch, like that of Midas, 

Changed the forest boughs to gold. 



IS^ THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 

Musing on the varied splendors 

Spread beneath that summer sky, 
Suddenly a newer glory 

Met the Brother's wond'ring eye ; 
For a bird of brightest plumage, 

As if bathed in morning's light, 
Seated on a bough beside him, 

Dazzled his bewildered sight. 

Soon as from the abbey turret 

Ceased the angelus to ring. 
Did the bird of matchless beauty 

On its bough begin to sing ; 
Brother Paul entranced stood list'ning. 

Though inspiring strains he'd heard, 
None were like the clear, melodious 

Music of the stranger bird. 

Such a grand, harmonious torrent 

Of sweet music never rang 
Over earth since wand'ring angels 

By the groves of Eden sang. 
Nature held her breath to listen, 

Hushed the breeze the boughs among, 
Bade the murmuring brook be silent 

While she heard that thrilling song. 

Soon the beauteous songster flitted 
Through the woods from tree to tree. 

And the monk enchanted followed. 
Drinking in its melody, 



THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 159 

Cautious lest the dead leaves round him 

By his footsteps might be stirred. 
Dreading lest his very breathing 

Should disturb the wondrous bird. 

Onward, onward through the forest 

Did the peerless songster fly, 
Till at last its pinions rested 

On an oak tree, towering high ; 
There the monk, with soul enraptured. 

Cast himself upon the ground, 
While sweet song in liquid gushes 

Stirred the listening air around. 

And his soul entranced with pleasure, 

Drinking in that glorious strain. 
Sat with folded wings that never 

Wished to visit earth again. 
But at length the vision faded, 

Ceased the music's magic spell, 
And he heard the silv'ry chiming 

Of the distant abbey bell. 

Starting up he gazed around him 

In the holy vesper light, 
But the songster's splendid pinions 

Flashed no longer on his sight ; 
So he turned his footsteps homeward, 

Sighing that the witching lay 
Which had filled with joy his being, 

Should so soon have passed away. 



l6o THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. 

Wonders burst upon his vision ; 

Where he left at early morn 
Broad green woods and thorns and brambles 

Now lay fields of rip'ning corn ; 
And the white walls of a village 

With its gleaming spires in view, 
Stood where late the wildwood blossoms, 

Drank the fragrant morning dew. 

Wearily he sought the abbey, 

But its rugged walls were gone ; 
In its place a stately mansion 

Reared its towers of polished stone ; 
At its gates he stood bewildered, 

Looking round in pained surprise, 
Fearing lest some evil spirit 

Cast a glamour o'er his eyes. 

The familiar, kindly visage 

Of the porter was not there, 
But another oped the portal, 

Eyeing him with curious air; 
All the brothers seen were strangers, 

Not a face that he had known 
Met his view ; it seemed his brethren. 

With their antique walls, had flown. 

Brother Paul amazed looked round him, 
" Speak, O brothers! tell," cried he, 
" Whence have come these wondrous changes. 
Whence these faces that I see? 



THE BIRD FROM PARADISE. i6i 

Lead me to the Abbot Anselm, 

Whom I left at matin hour; 
Over him the demon's magic 

Surely can have had no power." 

Why those looks of blank amazement ? 

Can he credit what he hears ? 
" Brother, holy Father Anselm 

Has been dead a hundred years !" 
Then was rent the veil of ages 

From before his startled eyes ; 
He had Hstened to the singing 

Of the bird from Paradise. 

" Great All-Father," cried he, sinking 

On his knees, " then Thou hast given 
To thy servant what he prayed for — 

Here on earth, a glimpse of heaven ; 
How enchanting was that music 

Which made rolling ages seem 
But a few brief sunny moments, 

But a transient, blissful dream. 

" Now indeed my days are ended, 

And my longing soul would fain 
Leave its clay, that it may listen 

To that blessed song again. 
To the eye but once permitted 

Heaven's glories to behold, 

Earth, however bright and lovely, 

Seems a desert dark and cold." 
II 



l62 OLD SONGS. 



OLD SONGS. 

As sweet as to the parched Hps of the flowers 
Must be the fall of heaven's pitying tears, 

Are to the heart in sad and lonely hours 
The old, familiar songs of bygone years. 

How solemnly along Time's moss-grown arches. 
That span thy long, dim aisles, O misty Past ! 

Those old songs swell like grand funereal marches 
Entoned above dead years, too bright to last. 

The strains we oft have heard in hours of gladness, 
Though carelessly from stranger lips they flow. 

Oft bear us o'er the gulf of years and sadness 
Back to the sunny days of long ago. 

They bring us back to winter nights, when cheerful 
The firelight gleamed o'er an unbroken band; 

With thoughts of these our eyes grow dim and tearful- 
Some pilgrims still, some in the spirit land. 

Not always do old songs bring thoughts of sorrow, 
Although a broken household they recall ; 

We hope upon the bright, eternal morrow 

To meet our loved ones where no tears shall fall. 

Though life may be to us a desert dreary 
That desolation sweeps with tireless hand. 

The songs of home are to the heart, when weary, 
As fountains gushing from the barren sand. 



AFTER THE STORM. 163 



AFTER THE STORM. 

The storm is past. How gloriously 

Shines out the setting sun, 
To give the earth a parting smile 

Before the day is done ; 
While in the calm blue eastern heaven 

The fleecy clouds drift free, 
Like boats of pearl with golden sails 

Upon a sapphire sea. 

As over field and forest fall 

The day's departing beams, 
That light with gold the waving boughs, 

With crimson flush the streams, 
Across the yellow harvest fields 

The trees long shadows fling, 
Like dusky plumes that evening snatched 

From night's descending wing. 

God's little feathered worshipers 

Have sung their vesper hymn, 
And silence walks with viewless tread 

Amid the shadows dim ; 
The breeze upon its airy wings 

Is bearing peace and rest, 
Its breathings low faint echoes seem 

From mansions of the blest. 



1 64 A MORNING WALK. 

Lord, with what loveHness thy hand 

Has decked this world of ours. 
Its waving woods, clear singing streams, 

And myriad-tinted flowers, 
Its ever-changing seas and skies 

Proclaim thy boundless love. 
And faintly picture to our minds 

The world of bliss above. 



A MORNING WALK. 

This glorious morning of God's hallowed day 

The air is balmy with the breath of May, 

While Nature, breathing of delicious rest, 

Imparts a blissful calm to every breast. 

And here amid the peaceful solitudes. 

Brown, loamy fields, green meadows, budding woods- 

Where'er the sweet spring-angel's feet have trod, 

Her flowery footprints raise our hearts to God. 

Upon the myriad forest boughs are seen 

Young tender buds of pale, transparent green. 

With timid shyness peeping slowly forth, 

As if they feared the bleak winds of the north; 

While 'mong the tree-tops countless feathered guests 

Who flit with joy around their summer nests. 



A MORNING WALK. 165 

In happy strains of gushing gladness raise 
Their blended voices in their Maker's praise. 

Upon each fallen tree and gray old stone 

A brighter green the velvet moss has grown, 

While 'mid the brown, dead leaves that fell last year, 

The wildwood blossoms shy, sweet faces rear. 

The violets, peeping out by wood and stream, 

Their blue eyes ope to greet the morning's beam, 

And dandelions spangle each broad fold 

Of earth's green mantle with their stars of gold. 

The apple-orchards, draped in pink and white, 
Their broad arms wave and toss their banners bright; 
The jagged branches of the thorny sloe 
Are wreathed in blossoms pure as April snow ; 
The varied landscape speaks of Him whose hand 
Has in such brilliant beauty robed the land ; 
We muse upon his power, and feel the while 
The sunshine but the shadow of his smile. 

O God, our great Creator, Father, Friend, 

Our life's beginning and our spirit's end, 

How beauteous is this world which Thou hast given 

To be our pathway to our home in heaven ! 

How earnest, true and eloquent appear 

The voiceless preachers Thou dost give us here! 

Tree, shrub and blossom, earth and sky and sea, 

All, all we gaze on speak to us of Thee. 



l66 THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 

To Thee an endless anthem ocean sings, 
To Thee each flower its grain of incense flings, 
The pure, unfathomed, boundless arch above 
At once is type and teacher of thy love. 
All senseless, soulless things thy laws obey, 
How can thy children then be less than they ? 
Shall we be mute when e'en the meanest clod 
Beneath our feet gives praise to Thee, our God ? 



THE FIRESIDE AT HOME. 

When tossed on the billows of life's dreary ocean 

We drift o'er the waters afar. 
And vainly look up to the storm-clouds above us. 

To catch the pale beam of a star. 
When sorrow's dark veil, like the wing of the tempest, 

O'ershadows our path as we roam. 
One heart-cheering beacon shines out through the dark- 
ness — 

The glow of the fireside at home. 

Oft back to the light of the dear days departed 

Does memory tenderly turn; 
And, oh, for the peace and contentment that crowned 
them. 

The heart must unceasingly yearn ; 



NATURE AND ART. 167 

For then when the night over valley and mountain 

Had folded her mantle of gloom, 
Kind faces, so dear that their smiles were our sunshine, 

Encircled the fireside at home. 

O friends long departed! O bright days long vanished I 

When back to the years that have fled 
We turn from the joys and the woes of the present 

To think of the loved and the dead ; 
The light wing of fancy with airy touch brushes 

The dust from the doors of the tomb, 
And once more unites us, the dead and the scattered, 

Around the dear fireside at home. 



NATURE AND ART. 

Is Art more beautiful than Nature ? View 

The fair queen-lily, then with cunning hand 

Endeavor to surpass it ; fashion out 

Of whitest ivory a chalice pure. 

And in the cup cast grains of gleaming gold. 

To form the stately stem and glossy leaves 

Take greenest emeralds thick sprinkled o'er 

With brightest diamonds for their drops of dew. 

Now place your art-creation by the side 

Of that which sprang up from the mold when God 

Breathed on the dust and bade the blossom rise. 



1 68 NATURE AND ART. 

Your work is but a scentless, lifeless thing ; 
'Tis dead, while Nature's nursling feels a thrill 
Of joyousness shoot through its heart as creeps 
The pale green life-blood through its slender veins. 

Behold the marvellously chiselled form 

That into marble beauty slowly grew 

Beneath the hand of Genius, till you deem 

It loveHer than aught of Adam's race. 

There's something wanting still ; its frozen lips 

Can never part to give you smile for smile, 

And though your heart should break, its cold, pure eyes 

Can for your anguish never drop a tear. 

Here view the beauty which the painter's hand 

Has prisoned in the canvas ; study well 

That glorious ideal till you dream 

The fairest angel from the world of hght 

Has draped her wings and stepped within the frame. 

The changeless brightness of that radiant face 

Is wearisome ; its level lids can ne'er 

Droop heavily with sadness when you sigh, 

Nor rise with joyousness to see your joy. 

Is Art more grand than Nature ? Rear aloft 
A gorgeous temple, on whose storied dome. 
Upheld by massive columns, richly wrought, 
Shall glow the master works of master minds, 
The soaring dreams that were not born of sleep, 



NATURE AND ART. 169 

But from the gifted brain and earnest soul 

Came slowly forth in long and anxious nights 

And weary toilsome days. How splendid, vast 

That towering pile of glory seems ; but see 

The world of Nature, that majestic fane 

Constructed by the Architect Divine — 

Its floor the earth, the everlasting hills 

Its moveless pillars, stretching up beyond 

The reach of mortal eye, their capitals 

Pure pyramids of never-melting snow 

That shine like gold and crystal in the sun — 

While deep and strong of voice the sounding sea, 

Its mighty organ, sends up peal on peal, 

A solemn, endless song of praise to Him 

Who made it ; and far up in the immense, 

Immeasurable, ever-changing dome 

Swing flaming worlds to light its worshipers. 

The Artist's work approaches Nature's when. 
With limitless devotion, love and faith 
He lays his life upon the lofty shrine 
Of that which is to him the Beautiful; 
Exhausts in toil the soul, which passes forth. 
To glorify his works, illumining 
Their darkness with a ray of light divine. 
That Art may live the artist's doomed to die; 
Life is the price of immortality. 



17C ERIN. 



ERIN. 

She sits, a crownless, captive queen, 

Beside the heaving main, 
A cypress wreath around her brow. 

And on her Hmbs a chain ; 
And as the sorrow-laden years 

Drag wearily along, 
The mighty ocean sobs to hear 

Her melancholy song. 

She strikes the harp with trembling hand, 

And as she sadly sings, 
Her tears like gems are glittering 

Among the wailing strings. 
The quiv'ring chords that yet remain 

Can only tell of woe ; 
Those breathing sounds of triumph high 

Were broken long ago. 

Along the vistas of the past 

She views, with tearful gaze. 
The splendid light that Freedom shed 

Around those vanished days 
When Art and Science, nurslings yet. 

To Britons rude unknown, 
Were fostered by her generous hand 

And sheltered by her throne. 



ERIN. 171 

When Learning and Religion roamed, 

Twin pilgrims hand in hand, 
By war's dread fury forced to flee 

Each scourged and stormy land, 
Our sacred isle a welcome gave, 

And gorgeous shrine and dome 
Sprang up to give the hunted ones 

A shelter and a home. 

Then in her radiant loveliness 

She stood serenely fair, 
No sorrow bowed her sunny brow, 

Her heart was free from care ; 
By royal bards her praise was sung 

In grand and lofty strain ; 
Her hosts were mighty on the land, 

Her ships upon the main. 

But soon a fearful tempest swept 

Her cloudless morning o'er — 
The Sea- Kings with their savage hordes 

Came from their frozen shore; 
They came to plunder and to slay. 

And fierce and deadly strife 
Did Erin wage through ages long 

For liberty and life. 

At last she saw her sunny plains 
From the invaders free; 



172 ERIN. 

The spoilers from her shores were hurled 

And fled beyond the sea. 
Each shrine and hall from ruin rose 

Magnificent and strong, 
And lofty arches upward bore 

Devotion's chant and song. 

Ah, then the nation's golden age 

In majesty swept by, 
The flashing light of genius shed 

A glory o'er her sky. 
Her sages bore to many lands 

Their stores of precious lore, 
While pilgrims came from distant climes 

For knowledge to her shore. 

The greedy Saxon came at last 

To grasp her fertile soil; 
His artful snares were round her flung 

In wily serpent coil; 
One base and traitor-hearted son 

Stepped forth, her foes to aid. 
Like him who in Gethsemane 

His Lord and Friend betrayed. 

Then Erin's stainless plains and streams 
Were dyed in heroes' blood. 

But unsubdued, where one was crushed 
Another bravely stood ; 



ERIN. 173 

Since then, though centuries of wrong 

And dark misrule have passed, 
Each year has found the brave old land 

Unconquered as the last. 

In weary bondage now she sits 

Forsaken and alone, 
Her hoary locks and tattered robe 

By wild winds rudely blown ; 
But though the night be dark and drear, 

And hoarse the tempest raves, 
A glowing light forever gleams 

Around her heroes' graves. 

Her star of hope still brightly shines 

And never shall grow dim. 
Her song of sorrow soon must change 

To a triumphal hymn ; 
From desolation's ashes yet 

She, phoenix-like, shall soar. 
In freedom's full and glorious Hght 

To dwell forevermore. 



174 TO A SISTER OF MERCY. 



TO A SISTER OF MERCY. 

Dear friend, the true and earnest, 

My thoughts oft turn to thee; 
I hear thy words of kindness,. 

Thy friendly face I see. 
Too oft the links are brittle 

That worldly ties entwine; 
How much more deep and lasting 

Is friendship such as thine ! 

Oft in the gloomy prison 

Where sin and sorrow dwell, 
Thy name is breathed with blessings 

Within the convict's cell ; 
Oft o'er the lowly threshold 

Where wretchedness abides, 
Of timely succor bearer, 

Thy noiseless footstep glides. 

Oh, noble is thy mission ! 

Then be thy labor blest, 
Long be it thine to comfort 

The needy and distressed — 
To guide the weak and erring, 

And watch the suff'rer's bed, 
To soothe and bless the dying 

And pray beside the dead. 



ON THE WAVE. 175 

May angel fingers gather 

Thy deeds of mercy done, 
And twine them into garlands 

To lay before the throne; 
And when life's toils are over 

May'st thou its cares lay down, 
To wear in endless glory 

A never-fading crown. 



ON THE WAVE. 

On the deep around us 

Towering billows rise, 
In their fury bounding 

To the lowering skies ; 
Leagues of angry ocean, 

Lashed to raging foam. 
Wildly roar between us 

And the light of home. 

On the stormy ocean 

Drifting on and on, 
Terrors gather o'er us. 

Light and strength are gone; 
See each yawning billow 

Scooping out a grave, 
Vain is man's endeavor. 

Vain his might to save. 



176 THE PICKET. 

Desolate and dreary- 
Tossing on the sea, 

Weak as helpless infants, 
God, we call on Thee ; 

Calm the world of waters 
Rolling in thy hand. 

Bear us all in safety 
To the distant land. 



THE PICKET.* 

The night is dark and cheerless, the wintry blast blows 

chill 
Across the sluggish river and o'er the dreary hill ; 
But out from camp the soldier on picket guard must go. 
Alone while others slumber, to stand in cold and snow. 

With muffled step in silence night's solemn noon goes 

by, 

Her starry eyes gaze coldly upon him from on high. 
And far o'er vale and mountain his youthful fancies 

roam 
To dear, familiar faces and loving hearts at home. 

He sees his aged mother with look of anxious care. 
While busy, thoughtful sisters for him some gift prepare ; 

■'^In the winter of 1862 several soldiers on picket guard in the 
Army of the Potomac were found at their posts frozen to death. 



THE PICKET. 177 

He hears them speak of Charlie, and for his safety pray, 
And knows their hearts are with him though he is far 
away. 

But fiercer still around him the tempest's black wings 

blow. 
The frosty air cuts keener than weapon of the foe; 
He feels his life-blood freezing, his heart grows cold and 

still, 
Out in the solemn midnight upon the lonely hill. 

At length when dawns the morning, by the " relief " is 

found 
Still at his post the soldier, stretched Hfeless on the 

ground, 
A smile his pale lips wreathing ; as peaceful seems his 

rest 
As is an infant's slumber upon its mother's breast. 

But where the dark Ohio rolls slowly on its way, 
Within a cheerless homestead are heavy hearts to-day ; 
A lonely, widowed mother sits bowed in bitter woe. 
She mourns her boy, her Charlie, who perished in the 
snow. 



12 



178 TO LIZZIE. 



TO LIZZIE. 

God bless thee, Lizzie darling, where'er thy footsteps 

roam. 
May angels ever guard thee and fill with light thy home; 
May Time, the potent changer, as lightly pass o'er thee 
As skims the white gull's pinions across the sleeping sea. 

May strong, unfailing friendship make bright thy passing 

hours, 
Forever may thy pathway be strewn with fairest flowers ; 
God shield thy free young spirit from sin and care and 

woe, 
And make thy earthly dwelling a Paradise below ! 

And should a cloud of sorrow across thy sunshine glide, 
May'st thou forget it thinking upon the Crucified; 
Remembering, should ever hope's rosy light grow dim, 
That suff'rings borne with patience but make us more 
like Him. 

Life is so brief and changeful that at the last 'twill seem 
As if our earthly journey were but a fleeting dream; 
And oh, may it be ever a blissful dream to thee. 
And in the land of angels may thy awaking be. 



PERSEVERE. 179 



PERSEVERE. 

[written after the FENIAN STRUGGLE OF 1 865.] 

There is no such word as fail 

For a brave, determined spirit ; 
Then in freedom's holy cause 

May we never, never hear it. 
Only weak hearts e'er despair — 

Strong ones from each vain endeavor 
Rise more earnest than before ; 

Never dream of failure — never. 

Seven hundred years of wrong 

Failed to crush the soul of Ireland ; 
Strong within our hearts to-day 

Burns the spirit of our sireland; 
And till right's stern fight is won 

Plan and labor, hopeful ever; 
Bowed we may be for a time, 

Vanquished never, brothers, never. 

Though a false and venal few 

May the nation's life-blood barter, 

Can the earnest, hopeful, true 
See her age on age a martyr. 



l8o PERSEVERE. 

Torn and tortured, racked, reviled, 
While the sword hev chains can sever, 

And desponding fold their hands ? 
Freedom, justice thunder : Never ! 

Though oppression's arm is strong, 

Think of Grecia's great Three Hundred, 
Of the Swissland's dauntless son, 

Who the foeman's spear-wall sundered,* 
Of the great O'Neill t for years 

'Gainst the Saxon victor ever ; 
Doubt not Ireland can be freed ; 

Shall she ? Who will dare say never ? 

When the Indian scalping-knives. 

Which her British " cousins " brought her, 
Filled with woe Columbia's heart 

And her homes with savage slaughter, 
When the swarming Hessians strove 

Life to trample out forever, 
Had she yielded to despair 

Would she be a nation ? Never. 

* Arnold Winkelreid, seeing that his compatriots hesitated to 
attack the enemy's unbroken line of steel, leaped from the ranks, 
exclaiming, "Comrades, take care of my wife and children — I'll 
open a way to liberty ! " and rushing on the astonished foe, he 
grasped as many spears as his arms could reach. As he fell pierced 
with the spear points, his companions dashed into the breach thus 
made, and a ** highway was opened for freedom." 

t The O'Neill for fifteen years successfully defended his province 
against all the forces that Queen Elizabeth could send against him. 



PERSEVERE. i8i 



Had the hero soul of Tell 

Weakly bowed before disaster, 
Switzerland would bend to-day 

'Neath a crown and own a master. 
Shall the sons of Innisfail 

Cease to toil their bonds to sever, 
When the shadow of defeat 

Looms upon their pathway ? Never! 



Shall our scattered race for aye 

Be the tool of other powers — 
Sneered at when we strive to rise. 

Scorned because no land is ours ? 
No — determined toil must win 

Freedom's smile on our endeavor. 
Shall we rest till Ireland's free ? 

Never, never, brothers, never ! 



i82 THE OLD HOME. 



THE OLD HOME. 

Far o'er the blue waves, in a green, sheltered valley 
Where stern, rugged mountains, wild, gloomy and 
grand, 

In blue mantles folded, mist-hooded and silent. 
To ward off the tempest like sentinels stand — 

Close nestled, like bird, in its thick leafy covert, 
The gray, ancient walls of our homestead are seen ; 

The sycamores shade its low roof, and the ivy 

Has draped its quaint gables in garlands of green. 

The fisherman's sail on the lough's heaving bosom 
Gleams white through the dark waving boughs of the 
trees. 
While borne from the meadows the breath of sweet blos- 
soms 
Floats in on the wandering wing of the breeze. 

There out of the hedge-rows the blackbirds and thrushes 
Pour forth their glad anthems to welcome the spring ; 

The hawthorns are draped in pale blossoms, like snow- 
wreaths 
From heaven swept down by an angel's white wing. 



WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN. 183 

When winter lays bare the green branches, the robin 
Forsakes his bleak thorn for the ivy's dark leaves ; 

The crickets chirp merrily round the wide chimney, 
While swallows are twittering under the eaves. 

Around the broad hearth by the turf's blaze are gathered 
Light hearts and glad faces when ev'ning has come, 

While story and song and the gay laugh of childhood 
Chime in with the sound of the wheel's busy hum. 

Oh, rose-tinted years of life's morning, how quickly 
Your glittering pinions for flight are unfurled, 

How quickly do shadows creep into the sunshine 
That Fancy's gold wand scatters over the world ! 



WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN.* 

IN MEMORIAM. 

Across the western wave was sadly borne 
The low, deep murmur of a mighty woe, 

The mournful wail wrung from a nation's soul 
Above a trusted, noble son laid low. 

* If worth is measured by sacrifice as well as by success, few 
merit a higher place in the nation's heart than William Smith 
O'Brien, who forfeited his estates and high position for his country's 
sake, and whose reward was a cruel separation from his family, and 
years of toil in a penal colony in Australia. 



184 WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN. 

And countless lips and hearts caught up the sigh 
As solemnly it floated to our shore : 

Our country bows her head in grief to-day, 
One of her greatest, bravest is no more. 



Well may she mourn him ; never truer heart 

Bled for her sorrows, suffered for her cause, 
Toiled for her liberty, unheeding both 

The world's keen censure and its vain applause. 
Nor does she hold her boundless homage back 

Because in vain he strove for native land. 
Because the narrow, cold and selfish sneered 

At deeds too great for them to understand. 



Too vast and deep and noble is her love 

To mete it calmly, coldly by success ; 
While other nations crown their victors, she 

Her wreathless heroes honors not the less ; 
And he whose dust she gathers to her breast. 

Whose lofty soul to purer realms has flown. 
Shall be enshrined within her heart of hearts 

Long as she sits upon her ocean throne. 



And she must miss him, oh, how sadly now ! 

Though other sons are left to be her stay ; 
For who, alas ! can fill the place of him 

Whose voice is hushed, whose sleep is in the clay ; 



WILLIAM SMITH O'BRIEN. 185 

Whose presence, like a radiant morning star, 
Illumed the inky blackness of her night, 

And pointed out beyond the gates of gloom 
The rising sun of freedom's longed-for light ? 



But in the land his spirit shall abide ; 

Such lives as his are never lived in vain, 
For others following his steps shall win 

At last the glorious goal he strove to gain. 
When pealing through immensity shall roll 

From sphere to sphere a ransomed nation's voice, 
That chants its hymn of praise to Freedom's God, 

We feel that he shall hear it and rejoice. 



O fearless spirit, grand, majestic soul. 

Unselfish, earnest, patient, noble, pure. 
Linked with our country's name thy name shall live. 

And as her rocks thy memory shall endure. 
Long, long shall Erin bend with saddened brow 

Where o*er thy place of rest the wild winds rave ; 
Instead of rain or dew a nation's tears 

Shall keep the grasses green around thy grave. 



l86 THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 



THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 

There's a legend quaint and olden 
That the children love to hear, 

When the sunny-faced spring daisies 
On the grassy slopes appear. 

Thus it runs : When little children 
Have been called from earth away, 

Each is carried by its angel 
Where in life it loved to play. 

And the dear, bright angel, stooping 

Over mossy bank and sod, 
Culls a handful of sweet flowers 

To be carried up to God. 

Then He smiles upon the blossoms 
That the dead child used to love, 

And they bloom around it ever 
In its happy home above. 

As one eve a strong, calm angel 

Bore a youthful spirit home. 
After all the light had vanished 

Still they lingered in the gloom. 



THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS. J 87 

And a narrow street they entered 

In that hushed and dusky hour, 
Where, half crushed and torn and faded, 

Lay a simple forest flower. 

" Poor, pale blossom ! " sighed the angel, 
" We will carry it on high. 
And while heavenward we're soaring. 
Little one, I'll tell you why." 

Then the child looked smiling upwaid, 

Opened wide his dreamy eyes. 
Thinking of the promised story 

As they floated through the skies. 

In his low, sweet tones the angel 

Told how, in a dreary room, 
Once a helpless boy, a cripple. 

Lived through years of want and gloom. 

He had never seen a forest, 

Never heard the robins sing, 
Never rambled through the meadows 

In the green and blooming spring. 

When the sunlight's golden arrows 

Darted through his open door, 
Or the noisy feet of children 

Rang along the corridor, 



l88 THE ANGEL AND THE FLOWERS. 

-' With a sigh the little captive 
Often murmured, "Ah, can I 
Never run as do the others, 
Never look on field or sky ! " 



" You one morning brought this flower 
Which he nursed with loving care, . 
And for months it was his garden. 
Bearing leaves and blossoms fair. 

" Now, though broken, pale and faded, 
Little friend, for having given 
To a lonely heart some pleasure, 
We are taking it to heaven." 

" How, dear spirit, do you know this ? " 
Asked the boy ; the angel smiled. 
Kissed the withered flower and answered, 
" I was once that crippled child." 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 189 



TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

My child, you know the diamond is more precious than 
its setting ; 
Your spirit is more precious than its dwelling-place of 
clay. 
We seek in vain for happiness by heedlessly forgetting 
That all we sigh and struggle for on earth must pass 
away ; 
Remember, busy, useful lives are noble, lofty, blameless, 

That idleness must ever lead to misery and sin. 
Toil for some purpose earnestly, let not a day be aim- 
less. 
And tranquil joy and lasting peace you certainly shall 
win. 



Behold the rapid mountain rills that leap instead of flow- 
ing, 
They rush to seek the rivers as the rivers seek the 
main; 
For ages have their waters been in onward motion going, 
Now dancing in the rivulet, now dropping in the rain. 
You weary of activity: might not the waves be weary 
Of making hillsides beautiful and valleys green and 
fair ? 



190 TO A YOUTHFUL FRIEND. 

But should they shrink from usefulness, they'd lie in vile 
stagnation, 
A blot upon the loathing earth, and poison to the air. 



Year after year the trees put forth their spreading leaves 
to shade us. 
Though every autumn angry blasts must sweep them to 
the clay; 
Spring after spring the flowers ope their smiling eyes to 
greet us. 
Although their short, sweet lives must end in darkness 
and decay. 
Poor human lives are like the leaves that grow to fade 
and perish, 
But, like the streams, are formed to bless as o'er the 
earth they run ; 
In action lies their only hope of resting in the ocean 
Of God's immensity and love when here their journey's 
done. 



A MOTHER'S PLAINT. 19I 



A MOTHER'S PLAINT. 

The starry banner waved aloft, the drums were beating 

loud, 
And down the street with martial tread there came a 

gallant crowd; 
I gazed upon that banner's folds in anguish fierce and 

wild, 
For it must brave the battle's storm borne by my only 

child. 



To say good-bye my Willie soon came boundmg to my 

side. 
And as he saw the bitter tears I vainly strove to hide 
He murmured, " Oh, it grieves my heart to give my 

mother pain ! " 
My boy ! my boy ! I never heard his happy voice again. 



Reports arrived of blood and death, of batdes lost and 

won, 
And fame upon her hero list soon placed my darling 

son ; 



192 A MOTHER'S PLAINT. 

A.nd letters from my Willie came, like messengers of 

light — 
Their cheering words were sunbeams sent to make my 

darkness bright. 



But ah ! one day a sombre box was laid before our door, 
And on its gloomy lid was traced the name of Willie 

Moore ; 
And with it came a messenger the fearful tale to tell, 
How 'neath the folds of freedom's flag my Willie fought 

and fell. 



And there he lay, my only one — as peaceful seemed his 

rest 
As when in his sweet childhood hours he slumbered on 

my breast; 
The scathing tempest blast of death, from which we 

vainly flee, 
Had crushed the sapling in its strength and spared the 

withered tree. 



My boy ! it seemed that sleep, not death, had closed his 

clear blue eye ; 
I could not feel that life had fled, I had not seen him 

die; 



A MOTHER'S PLAINT. 193 

No scar appeared, no mark of pain disturbed the placid 

face; 
A curl fell o'er his brow and hid the fatal bullet's trace. 



But when I heard the cold, damp earth upon his coffin 

fall. 
Across my startled senses swept the gloom of sorrow's 

pall; 
The dull sound of the dropping clods his footfalls seemed 

to be. 
Re-echoed from thy threshold dim, O vast eternity ! 

O crimson war! how many homes hast thou left child- 
less, lone — 

How many spirits crushed to dust, and dreary as my 
own! 

What, what to me are victories or cruel battles won ? 

Can they restore a broken heart, or give me back my 
son? 



13 



194 ANOTHER YEAR. 



ANOTHER YEAR. 

Another year has gone — aye, gone forever; 

Dread thought ! Oh, is it lost to thee, my soul ? 
Or shall it rise when time is thine no longer. 
To lift thee one step nearer to thy goal ? 

O thought of peace, or frowning ghost of fear ! 
Another year has gone — another year ! 

Another year ! Our God each year has given 

To be a step in that steep, narrow stair 
Whose wmdings are to lead us home to heaven, 

Though rough the way and thickly strewn with care. 
Then never, never may our spirits hear 
The knell of an unvalued, wasted year. 

Another year has gone ; we're one step nearer 
To that dark valley we must tread alone- — 
Alone, and only once. How strong soever 

The ties that bind our hearts to earth have grown, 
No friend can cheer us on that passage drear, 
For lonely we must die as dies the year. 

Another year has gone ; its joys and sorrows 
On glancing backward now as trifling seem 



THE SLEEPING WARRIORS. 195 

As are the changing whims of thoughtless moments, 
Or Hghts and shadows darting through a dream. 
As trifling when eternity appears 
Shall be the joys and woes of all our years. 



THE SLEEPING WARRIORS.* 

Wild Donegal, whose mountains ward 

From Erin's sheltered breast 
The gale that rusheth from the north 

Or sweepeth from the west, 
If sleeping in your rocky caves 

O'Niall's warriors lie. 
In thunder tones bid them arise, 

The time is surely nigh. 

Our bravest bear the exile's ban, 

Or pine in dungeons vile; 
Grim sorrow sits by every hearth 

Of our unhappy isle. 

* There is a legend that a troop of O'Niall's warriors lies in magic 
slumber in a cave of the Donegal mountains. When the Gael shall 
rise in might against the invaders, the clang of their arms is to break 
the spell that binds the sleepers of Aileach, who shall rush from 
their cave to lend their powerful aid in driving the Sassenach from 
the Irish shores. 



196 THE SLEEPING WARRIORS. 

While banished by that blighting power 
That o'er our land is cast, 

The Celtic race is scattered wide, 
Like leaves before the blast. 



The Saxon and the " canny Scot " 

Enjoy our valleys fair; 
The rightful children of the soil 

Can find no shelter there. 
Prone to the dust our land is crushed, 

Her forehead dyed with shame, 
And, bitter thought ! for all her woes 

We are ourselves to blame. 



O altar of the exile's hope. 

Our Eden in the sea. 
Earth shows no land so dearly loved, 

So deeply wronged as thee. 
Our hearts are as the dial-flower, 

Thy distant shore their sun ; 
The links that bind our souls to thee 

Yet fail to make us one. 



To crush us out our foes unite, 
In right we will not join ; 

In tortured Erin still they fight 
For Limerick and the Boyne. 



THE OLD. 197 

Here party strifes our ranks divide — 

Why can we not be true 
To either or to both, and toil 

As one for Ireland, too ? 

Wake, warrior. hearts, in Aileach's cave, 

Up, break the sleep of years ; 
The living will not — you, O dead, 

Must dry our country's tears. 
Though eager for the fray, her sons 

May grasp the battle-brand, 
They will not strive to conquer self 

To free their native land. 



THE OLD. 



We meet, but not as oft we met in happy days of yore ; 
Our faces wear a chilling look that then they never wore; 
We've other friendships, other aims, our hearts are calm 

and cold — 
The present days, though bright they seem, can ne'er be 

like the old. 

You're changed, alas ! and so am I ; we ne'er again can 

know 
The perfect trustfulness that made life's glory long ago; 



198 A SIGH. 

Then friendship was the heart's free gift, to-day 'tis bought 

and sold — 
Alas ! alas for vanished times ! alas for days of old ! 

Vain, vain the yearning spirit's cry: " Come back, bright 

days so dear ! " 
For oh, the fresh green spring must fade ere autumn 

crowns the year. 
We meet as if between our lives a thousand years had 

rolled ; 
Perhaps 'tis well the present time can ne'er be like the 

old. 



A SIGH. 



Far, far across the whisp'ring waves 

A gleaming rim doth lie, 
A pallid, ghstening silver hne 

Where sea melts into sky; 
And as the white ships cross that line 

Their fading seems to me 
A spirit's passage out of time 

To dim eternity. 

Oh, for the power to soar away 
From this encumb'ring clod, 



THE CROWNING WITH THORNS. 199 

And fold the soul's earth-weary wings 

Close by the feet of God ; 
To sail through air as sail the ships 

Across the ocean's breast, 
And anchor safe, life's tempests o'er, 

The port of endless rest ! 



THE CROWNING WITH THORNS. 

*• All hail, Judea's king, to thee ! " 
In tones of cruel mockery 

The heartless soldiers cried, 
As bending low, with jeering nod, 
They crowded round the Son of God, 

His anguish to deride. 

The tattered purple round Him flung, 
Close to his wounded shoulders hung, 

Dyed deeper by his gore; 
Though faint and giddy 'neath the weight 
Of human crime and human hate. 

His tortures were not o'er. 

Loud rang the shout, " We'll crown our king !" 
And ruthless hands made haste to bring 

Rough bows of jagged thorn 
With stinging points, a wreath to twine, 



200 THE CROWNING WITH THORNS. 

Then pressed it round the brow divine 
That meekly bore their scorn. 

A broken reed — the emblem meet 
Of worldly favor, changing fleet — 

As sceptre in his hand 
'Mid fiendish laughter did they place, 
Then buffeted his sacred face — 

That coarse and brutal band. 

O Lord of mercy ! Lord of power ! 
None in that fearful, gloomy hour 

To thee would mercy show ; 
And we, as pitiless as they, 
Would rend thy heart with sins to day, 

And cause thy blood to flow. 

O thorn-crowned King, the Crucified, 
Creator who for creatures died, 

Our faults with mercy see ; 
Let every thorn that pierced thy brow 
Our cold hearts pierce with sorrow now 

For having wounded Thee. 

And make us prize not earthly dross, 
But 'neath the shadow of the cross 

Seek gold that cannot rust ; 
And lay our treasures up on high, 
Where free our souls to them may fly 

When heart and brain are dust. 



REST. 20I 



REST. 

Wearily, wearily the slow, dull hours 

With leaden feet are plodding on their way 

Drearily, drearily through gloom and showers 
Sinks into rest the dark and drowsy day. 



Gloomily, gloomily the low clouds gather 
Their inky fold across the sky's gray breast ; 

The world seems weary, and our spirits, Father, 
Are weary, too, and cry to Thee for rest. 



Rest, give us rest, O Father, in thy kindness, 
Not from life's toils and duties, but fronr all 

The misty doubts and fears and spirit-blindness 
That veil thy face and hold us in their thrall. 



Cheerfully, cheerfully the world is smiling, 
E'en while it makes the soul an idle jest, 

And with its vain, false pleasures is beguiling 
Our hearts from Thee, their only peace and rest. 



202 THE FRIENDS OF DAYS GONE BY. 

Hopefully, hopefully at last we gather 

Oar faults and follies for thme eye to see; 

Give toils and trials if Thou wilt, O Father, 
But let us find eternal rest in Thee. 



THE FRIENDS OF DAYS GONE BY. 

Oh, friends who gladdened vanished years, 

I fondly picture all 
Your dear, dear faces glowing fair 

On mem'ry's love-lit wall; 
Through change and distance brightly beams 

Each earnest, truthful eye. 
For friendship's portraits never fade. 

Dear friends of days gone by. 



Your kindly looks and cheering words 
Made smooth life's rugged ways ; 

Your smiles were sunshine in the gloom 
Of sorrow-clouded days ; 

Oh, peaceful, happy be your paths, 
Though far from mine they lie, 



THE FRIENDS OF DAYS GONE BY. 203 

And oft in spirit may we meet, 
Sweet friends of days gone by. 



My heart is full of grateful thoughts, 

And fain would breathe in song 
The deep devotion, fervent, true, 

That has been yours so long; 
But far too weak are words to tell 

Of love that ne'er can die — 
God bless you all forevermore, 

Dear friends of days gone by. 




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